GRAFFITI    D'lTALIA 


GRAFFITI     D'lTALIA 


BY 


VV.      W.      S  T  O  R  Y 


CHARLES    SCRIBNER   &    CO.,    NEW   YORK 

AND 

WILLIAM    BLACKWOOD   AND    SONS 

EDINBURGH    AND    LONDON 
MDCCCLXVIII 


All  Rights  of  Translation  and  Reproduction  reserved 


ENTERED  ACCORDING  TO  ACT  OF  CONGRESS,  IN  THE  YEAR  1868, 
BY  W.  W.  STORY, 

IN  THE  CLERK'S  OFFICE  OF  THE  DISTRICT  COURT  OF  THE 
SOUTHERN  DISTRICT  OF  NEW  YORK. 


WAN  STACK 


PREFACE. 


THERE  are  two  statements  to  be  made  in 
regard  to  this  volume.  First :  many  of  the 
poems  have  been  previously  published  in 
various  magazines,  though  they  are  now 
for  the  first  time  collected.  Second :  all 
the  poems  are  intended  to  be  dramatic 
in  their  character ;  and,  being  the  utter 
ances  of  historical  or  purely  fictitious  per 
sonages,  are  not  to  be  understood  as  ex 
pressing  the  opinions  or  sentiments  of  the 
Author. 

717 


CONTENTS. 


MEDIEVAL. 

PAGE 

GINEVRA  DA   SIENA 3 

PADRE   BANDELLI    PROSES 80 

LEONARDO     DA    VINCI    POETISES       .....  90 

RADICOFANI    .........  99 

MONSIGNORE  DEL   FIOCCO 119 

A   CONTEMPORARY    CRITICISM    ON    RAFFAELLE           .            .  130 

ANTIQUE. 

CLEOPATRA 147 

CASSANDRA 155 

PAN   IN    LOVE l6o 

MARCUS  AURELIUS  TO   LUCIUS   VERUS    .           .           .           .  1 68 

A   SONG   OF   ISRAEL            .            .            .            .            .            .            .  172 

A    PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN    IN    ROME  .  .  .  .174 

ORESTES 195 


CONTENTS.  vii 

TO    FORTUNE              .            .            .            .            .            .            .            .  199 

PRAXITELES   AND    PHRYNE 2OI 

MARCUS  ANTONIUS             .......  204 

MODERN. 

GIANNONE        ........  211 

IL  CURATO 247 

ZIA   NICA 257 

L'ABBATE        .        .        .        .        .        .        .        .  262 

NINA 267 

GIULIETTA      .         ....:...  273 

IN  THE  RAIN 277 

THE   LILAC 279 

THE  GAUCHO             .....  282 

SPRING 2g,j 

AUTUMN 288 

AN   ENGLISH    HUSBAND   TO    HIS    ITALIAN    WIFE          .            .  293 
•  297 


IN   THE    MOONLIGHT 


NEMESIS 299 

BLACK   EYES ^O2 

THE   SAD   COUNTRY .506 

CASTEL   GANDOLFO 308 

AT    PEACE ^jj 

WOGGINS 3^ 

UNDER   THE   CYPRESSES 3!7 

TO   BIANCA o2I 

THE    PADRE   AND   THE    NOVICE 323 

UNDER   A  CLOUD 


viii  CONTENTS. 

THE   SHADY    LANE 332 

UNDER   THE    ILEXES          ....••-•  33° 

OPHELIA 343 

THE   RIVER    OF   TIME                    .            •            •            •            •            •  345 

RENUNCIATION 347 

NIGHT-WATCH 349 

A   LEGEND 35* 

IN   THE   GARDEN      .....-••  353 

SYMBOLS 357 

IN   THE   SHADOW      .....•••  359 

ART                                    363 

ON   THE  SEA-SHORE           .......  3^5 

THE  CHIFFONIER 3^8 

BLANK   QUESTIONINGS      .....•'  371 

ALPINE    SONG 374 

TWO   STARS 377 

EUROPA 378 

GIOTTO'S  CHAPEL 379 

SCHERZI. 

BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS 383 

SINGING  AT  TWILIGHT 4°4 

PERSICA              .........  407 

A   MUSICAL  BOX       ........  408 

ROSA    HESTERNA      .            .            .            .            .            .            .            •  41 1 

SNOWDROP       .            .            .            .            .            .            ...  413 


AL    MIO    AM  ICO 

A  R   T  U  R  O      DEXTER 


Belli  gli  estivi  giorni  a  me  si  cari 
Sotto  d"1  Italia  il  del  splendido  e  puro, 
Belle  le  sere  awolte  in  vdo  scuro 
Che  leco  io  scorsi  in  dolci  favellari  ; 
Piii  belli  ancor,  piu  dolci  epiufelid, 
Perche  su  suol  stranier  vivemmo  amid. 

Sotto  alfombra  di  pampane  contorte 
Ricorda  cttio  scrivea  la  storia  mesta 
Di  due  cJiamor  sospinse  afinfunesta, 
A  morte  Pun,  Valtro  a  peggio  che  morte! 
Or  questa  istoria  a  Te  consacro,  un  pegno 
Deiramidzia  mia,  sebbene  indegno. 


ROMA,  ii  Aprile  1866. 


MEDIEVAL 


GINEVRA    DA    SIENA. 


"Meglio  e  morir  che  trarre 
Selvaggia  vita  in  solitudin,  dove 
A  niun  sei  caro  e  di  nessun  ti  cale." 

Saul  di  A  Ifieri,  scena  4,  atto  i. 

:  Love  is  a  greater  lawe  (by  my  pan) 
Than  may  be  yeven  of  any  erthly  man  ; 
And  therfore  positif  lawe,  and  swiche  decree 
Is  broken  all  day  for  love  in  eche  degree. 
A  man  moste  nedes  love  maugre  his  head. 
He  may  not  fleen  it,  though  he  shuld  be  ded, 
All  be  she  maid  or  wide  we  or  elles  wif." 

CHAUCER:   The  Knight's  Tale. 


So  then  you've  come  at  last,  my  own  best  friend, 

My  youth's  friend — never  friends  like  those  of  youth  ! 

I  had  not  thought  to  see  your  face  again, 

Nor  any  human  face  that  pitied  me. 

Now  let  me  weep  upon  your  breast ;  my  heart, 

Dried  up  within  me,  seems  to  swell  again 

At  your  soft  touch  of  pity — let  me  weep  ! 

My  tears  so  long  have  burnt  me,  but  these  tears, 

Like  rain  on  withered  grass,  bring  up  again 


|.  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  old  spring  greenness.     Oh  !  at  last,  at  last, 

This  passionate  tension  of  my  life  gives  way. 

The  desolating  sand-spout  whirled  along 

My  desert  life,  and  straining  up  for  years 

All  feelings,  thoughts,  and  hopes,  breaks  down  at  last; 

So,  let  me  weep  here — at  your  very  feet ; 

Lift  me  not  up — it  soothes  and  calms  me  so. 

See  !  what  a  poor,  bruised,  broken  thing  am  I  ! 

But  you,  dear  Nina,  knew  me  ere  this  brow 

Was  ruled  with  wrinkles,  ere  the  thick  dark  hair 

Which  clustered  round  it  grew  so  thin  and  white ; 

One  curl  at  least  remains  of  what  it  was, 

And  still  you  wear  it  in  your  locket,  love. 

You  yet  are  fair.     Stop  !  let  me  look  at  you  ; 

How  young  you  are,  and  I,  so  old,  so  old ! 

'Tis  only  happiness  can  keep  us  young. 

Then,  how  should  I  be  young, — imprisoned  here 

In  this  drear  villa,  all  my  turbulent  thoughts 

Storming  against  my  fate,  my  hopes  burnt  out, 

My  heart  the  crater  where  their  scoriae  lie. 

Yet  all  keeps  young  about  me — all's  the  same 

As  I  beheld  it  when  a  little  girl. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA. 

These  walls  are  still  the  same ;  the  sky's  the  same  ; 
The  same  sad  stretches,  the  same  undimmed  stars ; 
The  olives  are  not  changed ;  there  stand  the  pines, 
Murmuring  and  sighing  still ;  clouds  come  and  go, 
Just  as  they  did  when  I  was  young  and  gay : 
And  looking  on  them  thus,  year  after  year, 
So  changeless,  while  'tis  all  so  changed  with  me, 
Half  maddens  me  at  times.     They  seem  to  mock 
With  their  perennial  youth  my  vanished  joys. 
Here,  in  this  room,  I  was  so  happy  once  ! 
Here,  in  this  room,  I  am  so  wretched  now ! 
My  ghost — a  pleasant,  laughing,  careless  ghost — 
Walks  down  along  that  terrace.     See  !  'tis  there  ! 
And  yours  is  with  it.     Ah  !  one  sees  that's  yours  ; 
But  mine — who'd  ever  dream  that  once  was  I  ? 

Look  now,  it  beckons,  laughs,  and  flings  a  flower. 
Off !  off !  I  hate  you ;  vanish  from  my  sight : 
There — down  the  cypresses  go — go,  I  say ; 
Vanish  !  and  never  let  me  see  you  more. 

'Tis  gone  now — gone — would  it  were  never  there  ! 


GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Mere  fancy,  Rosa  says — perhaps  she's  right- 
Such  tricks  things  play  us.     Do  not  look  so  strange  ; 
Who  can  avoid  all  meetings  with  one's  ghost  ? 
And  yours,  does  yours  come  never  from  the  past, 
From  corners  dim  of  olden  days  and  dreams, 
To  whisper  words  that  almost  drive  you  mad  ? 
Ah  !  I  forget !  You  are  so  happy  still, 
And  joy's  gay  laughter  chases  ghosts  away. 

Well,  we'll  not  talk  of  that,  nor  think  of  that, 
Only  don't  look  so  sad  and  shake  your  head ; 
You  know  I  do  not  think  'twas  really  there, 
But  then  it  somehow  seemed  as  if  it  were 
Just  for  a  moment's  space.     Pray  bear  with  me, 
And  if  my  ways  and  words  to  you  seem  strange, 
Don't  mind  them,  dearest ;  living  all  alone 
We  get  fantastic  notions,  and  one's  talk 
Grows  wild  with  too  long  talking  to  one's  self. 
But  now  you  come  and  love  me,  I  am  strong ; 
You,  with  your  happy  smile,  scared  from  my  breast. 
Well,  well — no  matter  what, — 'tis  fled  away  • 
You  see  it's  gone  now — look,  there's  nothing  here. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  7 

Let  them  all  go ;  one  leap  to  other  days. 
My  heart  is  almost  light  to  see  your  face. 
Oh  !  kiss  me,  dearest,  kiss  me  yet  once  more — 
How  it  smooths  out  the  tangles  in  my  brain — 
And  put  your  hand  in  mine  :  believe  me,  dear, 
For  years  I  have  not  felt  so  sane  and  calm. 

I'll  write  upon  your  heart  as  on  a  book. 

If  I  go  over  all  the  old,  old  days, 

You'll  listen,  will  you  not  ?     I  know  you  will. 

Let  me  go  back  to  when  I  saw  you  last. 
Our  lives  till  then  had  close  together  lain, 
Shaped  each  to  each  in  habit,  feeling,  thought, 
Like  almonds  twinned  within  a  single  shell. 
What  thought  or  hope  was  mine  that  was  not  yours  ? 
What  joy  was  mine  that  was  not  shared  with  you? 
All  was  so  innocent  when  we  were  girls ; 
Our  little  walks — the  days  you  spent  with  me 
In  the  old  villa — where,  with  arms  loose  clasped 
Around  each  other's  waist  we  roamed  along 
Among  the  giant  orange-pots  that  stood 


GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

At  every  angle  of  our  garden-plot, 

And  told  our  secrets— while  the  fountain  plashed, 

And,  waving  in  the  breeze,  its  veil  of  mist 

Swept  o'er  our  faces.     Think  of  those  long  hours 

We  in  the  arched  and  open  loggia  sat 

Pricking  the  bright  flowers  on  our  broidery  frames, 

And  as  we  chatted,  lifting  oft  our  eyes, 

We  gazed  at  Amiata's  purple  height, 

Trembling  behind  its  opal  veil  of  air ; 

Or  on  the  nearer  slopes  through  the  green  lanes, 

Fenced  either  side  with  rich  and  running  vines, 

Watched  the  white  oxen  trail  their  basket-carts, 

Or  contadine  with  wide-flapping  hats 

Singing  amid  the  olives,  whose  old  trunks 

Stood  knee-deep  in  the  golden  fields  of  grain. 

Do  you  remember  the  red  poppies,  too, 

That  glowed  amid  the  tender  green  of  spring — 

The  purple  larkspur  that  assumed  their  place 

Mid  the  sheared  stubble  of  the  autumn  fields — 

The  ilex  walk — the  acacia's  fingered  twigs — 

The  rose-hued  oleanders  peeping  o'er 

The  terraced  wall — the  slanting  wall  that  propped 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA. 

Our  garden,  from  whose  clefts  the  caper  plants 

Spirted  their  leaves  and  burst  in  plumy  flowers  ? 

All  these  are  still  the  same — they  do  not  miss 

The  eye  that  loved  them  so ;  and  yet  how  oft 

I  wonder  if  those  old  magnolia-trees 

Still  feed  the  air  with  their  great  creamy  flowers, 

And  show  the  wind  their  rusted  under-leaf. 

I  wonder  if  that  trumpet  flower  is  dead. 

Oh  heaven  !  they  all  should  be,  I  loved  them  so  ; 

Some  one  has  killed  them,  if  they  have  not  died. 

But  you  can  see  the  villa  any  day, 

And  I  am  wearying  you.     Yet  all  these  things 

Are  beads  upon  the  rosary  of  youth, 

And  just  to  say  their  names  recalls  those  hours 

So  full  of  joy — each  bead  is  like  a  prayer. 

How  many  an  hour  I've  sat  and  dreamed  of  them. 

And  dear  Siena,  with  its  Campo  tower 

That  seems  to  fall  against  the  trooping  clouds, 

And  the  great  Duomo  with  its  pavement  rich, 

Till  sick  at  heart  I  felt  that  I  must  die. 

People  are  kneeling  there  upon  it  now, 


10  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

But  I  shall  never  kneel  there  any  more ; 

And  bells  ring  out  on  happy  festivals, 

And  all  the  pious  people  flock  to  mass, 

But  I  shall  never  go  there  any  more. 

How  all  these  little  things  come  back  to  me 

That  I  shall  never  see — no,  never  more  ! 

Oh,  kiss  the  pavement,  dear,  when  you  go  back  ! 

Whisper  a  prayer  for  me  where  once  I  knelt, 

And  tell  the  dead  stones  how  I  love  them  still. 

These  little  things, — ah,  suffer,  love,  like  me  ! 
You'll  know  how  all  these  memories  live  and  sting ; 
Even    lifeless    things,    that    scarce    with    conscious 

sense 

We  gaze  upon  in  sorrow  or  in  joy, 
Cling  to  our  joy  and  sorrow  close  as  life. 
Things,  too,  at  discord  with  our  lifted  mood 
Their  trivial  figure  on  the  mind  will  stamp 
So  deep  that  time  can  never  wipe  it  out ; 
Yes,  even  the  pattern  of  the  pavement  there, 
Its  stones  a  step  apart  on  which  I  trod 
In  torturing  hours,  are  printed  on  my  heart 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  II 

Like  some  essential  part  of  all  I  felt ; 

And  when  the  pang  comes  back,  they,  too,  return. 

As  we  two  wandered,  little  ignorant  girls, 

With  childish  talk  and  childish  wonder  then, 

What  did  we  know  of  life? — 'twas  all  a  play — 

A  picture — some  few  pretty  shifting  scenes 

Set  in  the  magic  lantern  of  our  youth. 

What  could  we  know,  we  little  hermits,  then  ? — 

Watched  over,  tended,  gently  led  along 

A  path  with  ne'er  a  stone  to  trip  us  up ; 

Reading  such  innocent  books,  going  to  mass, 

Saying  our  Aves  every  morn  and  eve ; 

Never  let  go  beyond  a  vigilant  eye 

To  watch  where  danger  hovered  •  caged  like  birds 

In  our  home  aviary,  where  we  sang, 

And  fluttered  round,  but  never  could  get  out ; 

Where,  though  the  eagle  and  the  swooping  hawk 

Were  ranging  round,  we  were  so  safe  from  them. 

How  were  we  fit,  thus  nurtured,  to  be  loosed 

Upon  the  world  ?     One  might  as  well  set  free 

The  frail  canary,  bred  within  a  cage. 


12  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Oh  !  in  the  storm  and  buffet  of  my  life 
My  heart  has  flown  so  often  back  again, 
And  beat  the  bars  that  could  not  let  me  in. 

Look  at  the  foolish  way  in  which  we're  trained, 

And  say,  how  can  it  fit  us  for  the  world  ? 

The  doctrine  and  the  mass,  of  course,  we're  taught ; 

Then  comes  our  first  communion  in  the  fold 

Of  some  clean  convent,  'mid  the  patient  nuns, 

Whose  minds  and  lives  are  stunted  at  the  best. 

What  can  they  teach  beside  hypocrisy, 

To  check  the  natural  currents  of  our  youth  ? 

Through  their  religious  panes  they  show  the  world 

All  glare  and  falseness— yet  we  sigh  for  it ; 

Then,  taken  back,  we're  kept  beneath  a  glass, 

Like  some  frail  plant  that  cannot  bear  the  breeze. 

For  home  is  but  a  kind  of  convent,  where 

Our  mother  is  the  abbess — we  the  nuns  ; 

We  learn  our  letters,  but  there's  nought  to  read 

Save  tedious  homilies  and  bloodless  books. 

Life  is  more  real,  so  we  sigh  for  it — 

Not  life  on  this  side  marriage,  but  beyond. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  13 

For  what  is  life  so-called  to  us  poor  girls — 

Embroidery  and  trivial  talk  at  home, 

Dressing,  a  little  music  on  the  lute,  and  then 

A  dull  and  formal  walk  on  the  parade, 

Where  we  may  learn  to  smile  and  bow  with  ease. 

Sometimes  convoyed  into  society, 

Our  mother  leads  us  with  a  careful  string, 

And  lets  us  hop  a  little  way  alone ; 

But  watching  us  the  while  with  Argus  eyes, 

And  lecturing  our  manners  and  our  words. 

Peeps  at  the  world,  from  under  down-dropped  lids 

Of  fear  and  innocence,  we  catch  ;  we're  told 

That  this  we  must  not  do — nor  that — nor  that ; 

All  that  we  long  for  is  prohibited. 

Burn  though  we  may  for  liberty  and  joy, 

In  whose  fresh  air  the  heart  alone  expands, 

With  little  worldly  maxims  we  are  drilled ; 

Calm  and  reserve  alone  are  maidenly. 

We  must  not  speak  unless  our  mother  nods. 

So  life,  with  all  its  stern  realities 

To  us  is  vague,  as  is  a  blind  man's  thought 

Of  colours,  or  a  deaf  man's  dream  of  sounds. 


14  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

Some  day  our  mother  calls  us  to  her  room, 

Count  This,  Marchese  That,  has  asked  our  hand — 

She  says,  "  'Tis  all  arranged  for  you,  my  dear ; 

He's  rich  and  young,  and  of  such  noble  birth, 

We  could  not  ask  or  hope  a  better  match ; 

I  and  your  father  both  are  satisfied." 

"  But  I,"  you  cry,  "  'tis  I  must  marry  him ; 

And  I  am  yet  so  young,  so  happy  here. 

Besides,  I've  scarcely  seen  him,  know  him  not — 

How  can  I  marry  if  I  do  not  love  ?" 

"  Love — love,  of  course  •  first  marry,  and  then  love  ! " 

Thus  marriage  opens  unto  us  the  door 
That  leads  to  liberty,  if  not  to  love. 
When  we  are  married,  we  at  least  are  free ; 
So,  unprepared  in  ignorant  innocence, 
We  rush  to  marriage  just  for  freedom's  sake. 

What  could  I  hope  ?     My  little  bark  put  forth 
Into  the  stormy  world,  and  made  a  wreck, 
And  here  I  rot— all  dashed  to  pieces  here  ! 

Look  at  that  ghastly  hulk  there  on  the  beach — 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  15 

That  broken,  bare-ribbed  skeleton  that  lies 
Deep  sunken  in  the  barred  and  shelving  sand ; 
'Twas  a  gay  vessel  launched  in  pride  and  joy, 
With  streaming  banners  and  with  music,  once — 
Look  at  it  now  !     Then  turn,  and  look  at  me  ! 
Are  we  not  both  the  same  sad  broken  wrecks  ? 
Still  old  thoughts  cling,  the  shells  and  barnacles 
Of  happy  days,  when  through  the  southern  seas 
Of  youth  my  keel  went  rushing  joyously, 
And  all  my  pennons  flew,  and  my  white  sails 
Rounded  their  bosom  to  the  swelling  air. 

You  know  the  Count,  the  husband  that  they  gave — 
Cold,  stern,  impassive,  like  an  angled  wall- 
Squared  to  his  duties — rigorous,  even,  hard — 
I  beat  myself  to  death  against  that  wall. 
He  married  me  as  he  would  buy  a  horse, 
Then  all  was  over.     "  Put  it  in  the  stall. 
Caparison  it  well  for  gala  days, 
Break  it  to  worldly  paces  with  a  curb, 
And  give  it  best  of  food  and  best  of  straw." 
Kind  treatment  this,  you  say:  what  would  you  more? 


1 6  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Nothing,  unless  one  has  a  heart  and  brain ; 
And  I,  alas  !  was  born  with  one  at  least. 

Ask  of  the  world  his  character — they'll  say, 
An  honourable  man  formed  to  respect, 
Proud  of  his  birth ;  but  who  would  not  be  proud  ? 
Refined,  exact,  punctilious ;  one,  in  fact, 
Safely  to  trust  in  great  and  little  things. 

Well,  then,  I  trusted  him  with  all  I  had. 

Now,  ask  of  me  what  was  the  noble  Count  ? 

The  world's  half  right ;  but  half  right's  wholly  wrong. 

Fair  was  his  outward  seeming — manners  fair — 

A  little  stiff  with  over-courtesy, 

Like  to  those  rich  brocades  all  sewn  in  gold ; 

But  noble,  I  agree,  and  dignified. 

The  apricot  is  smooth  upon  the  skin, 

And  yet  it  only  has  a  stone  for  heart. 

What  education  teaches,  he  had  learned; 

But  on  a  rock  you  cannot  rear  a  rose. 

Still,  stoniest  natures  have  their  sunward  side ; 

And  there  with  him  his  pride  and  honour  grew. 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  I/ 

The  shortest  line's  the  straightest  'twixt  two  points, 

And  the  frank  nature  takes  it  openly. 

His  nature  was  secretive  :  on  his  path, 

Lead  where  it  would,  he  loved  no  human  eye ; 

Dark  windings,  devious  ways,  he  rather  chose. 

Fifty  miles  round,  beyond  the  sight  of  man, 

Rather  than  one  across  in  open  view. 

His  good  and  bad  alike  he  loved  to  hide ; 

Spoke  little,  hated  praise — suspected  it — 

And  yet  was  flattered  by  obedient  acts. 

Passions  he  had,  but  he  had  mastered  them, 

And  loved  and  hated  in  a  bloodless  way ; 

But  never  was  with  generous  anger  fired, 

Nor  blazed  to  indignation  at  a  wrong. 

His  impulses  he  doubted — would  not  stir 

To  passion's  trumpet ;  but  lay  long  in  wait, 

Ambushed — then  struck  with  slow  and  proud  resolve, 

And  called  it  justice  when  he  took  revenge. 

His  dark  impassive  face  was  cold  as  bronze ; 
His  mouth  locked  up  in  silence  like  a  chest 
Whose  key  is  lost,  or  drawn  as  it  had  worn 

* 


1 8  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

A  life-long  curb  ;  his  forehead  full  and  bare, 

Where  not  a  wrinkle  told  what  passed  within. 

Sometimes  his  hands  would  twitch  when  he  was  moved, 

But  not  his  lips — no,  nor  his  cold  round  eyes, 

From  which  he  shut  all  meaning  at  his  will ; 

While,  like  an  intricate  machine,  his  mind 

With  counter-wheels  worked  out  the  simplest  act. 

There  is  my  master  !  there's  the  inside  man  ! 
Why  further  then  dissect?    He,  proud  and  cold, 
Reserved,  and  hating  every  show  of  heart ; 
I,  warm,  impetuous,  urged  by  impulses — 
Demanding  love  in  words  and  tones  and  acts. 
Could  we  two  live  together  ?     Yes  ;  as  lives 
The  passionate  wave  with  the  affronting  cliff, 
Fretting  in  quiet  seasons,  madly  dashed 
With  useless  violence  when  roused  in  storm. 
How  many  a  time,  in  longings  vast  and  vain, 
I  rushed  towards  him — strove  to  overclimb 
His  walled-up  nature,  and,  forced  back  again, 
Fell  with  a  wild  lament  into  myself, 
Shattered  with  struggle,  in  a  dull  despair. 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  19 

When  in  fierce  mood  I  once  o'erstept  the  line 

Of  rigid  prudence,  strict  punctilio, 

And  in  strong  language  railed  against  the  world, 

With  all  its  busy,  peeping,  prying  eyes, 

He  turned  with  half  a  smile  and  half  a  frown, 

And  used  a  figure — 'twas  the  first  and  last 

He  ever  used  save  one  : — "  You  like  these  tropes — • 

Here's  one  :  your  sail  is  larger  than  your  craft ; 

Take  heed  the  first  gale  do  not  sweep  you  down." 

"  Better  go  down,"  I  cried,  "  on  the  broad  sea, 
Battling  a  noble  voyage  with  wind  and  wave, 
Than  rot  inactive,  anchored  in  the  port, 
Fixed  stem  and  stern — a  hopeless,  helpless,  hulk. 
What  if  I  vail  my  spirit-sails  in  fear 
And  creep  to  shelter  for  ignoble  rest  ?— 
The  dullest  wreck  will  at  its  cable  strain 
WThen  from  the  outer  sea  the  great  swell  rolls, 
And  no  poor  creature  with  a  heart  and  brain 
But  in  the  stagnant  harbour  of  routine 
Feels  stormy  lifts  of  longing — pants  for  life, 
And  strains  to  grapple  with  some  noble  task." 


20  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

He  smiled  half-sneering,  and  then  coldly  said, 
"  The  noblest  task  is  to  command  one's  self;" 
And  then  I  knew  how  huge  a  fool  I  was, 
And  locked  my  life  and  longings  in  my  heart. 

But  after  all  'tis  love  that  most  we  need ; 
Love  only  satisfies  our  woman's  heart, 
And  even  our  ambition  looks  to  love ; 
That  given,  life  is  light — denied,  is  death. 
Man  is  content  to  know  that  he  is  loved, 
And  tires  the  constant  phrase  "  I  love  "  to  hear ; 
But  woman  doubts  the  instrument  is  broke 
Unless  she  daily  hear  the  sweet  refrain. 

Thus  life  went  on  for  three  long  weary  years. 
I  should  have  fallen  broken  to  the  earth 
The  last  sad  year,  but  one  hope  buoyed  me  up — 
I  was  to  be  a  mother.     Ah  !  the  thought 
Of  that  dear  face,  long,  long  before  it  came, 
Shone  in  my  thoughts  with  strange  pathetic  light, 
Like  the  moon  shining  in  a  snake-filled  dell — 
Something  at  last  to  have  which  I  could  love  ! 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  21 

Oh  !  how  I  prayed  that  it  might  be  a  boy, 

And  mediate  'tvvixt  that  iron  heart  and  mine. 

Who  knew  ?     The  sternest  natures  are  not  whole  ; 

Some  vulnerable  point  there  is  in  all, 

Where  they  were  held  when  dipped  into  the  Styx — 

Some  mother's  touch  where  you  can  reach  the  quick. 

So  with  this  reed  I  helped  my  hope  along, 

And,  waiting  patient,  said,  "  If  'tis  a  boy 

'Twill  touch  his  pride — his  pride  may  touch  his  love. " 

Our  boy  was  born,  and  my  prophetic  heart, 
Like  other  prophets,  mixed  the  true  and  false ; 
His  pride  was  touched — his  love  was  still  unborn. 
In  his  first  joy  there  seemed  a  kind  of  mist 
About  his  heart — it  passed  like  breath  on  steel ; 
At  sudden  times,  as  if  against  his  will, 
Words  almost  tender  from  his  lips  there  came, 
Then  chased  away  as  weak  and  out  of  place ; 
So  with  an  iron  glove  one  wipes  a  tear 
Quickly,  as  not  belonging  to  a  man. 

Sometimes  I  held  him  up  unto  the  Count, 


22  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And,  smothering  him  with  kisses,  cried  aloud, 

"  Is  he  not  lovely  ?  oh,  my  life  in  life  ! 

My  little  angel  out  of  paradise  ! 

Say,  is  he  not  too  dear  to  stay  with  us?'' 

Then  he — "  Why  always  thus  exaggerate  ? 

An  angel?  no,  a  good  stout  healthy  boy; 

And  dear,  of  course,  because  he  is  our  child." 

Yet  this  I  thought  was  half  in  awkwardness 

(Men  are  so,  often,  even  when  they  love), 

And  that  he  could  not  bring  his  lips  to  say 

What  stirred  within ;  for  often  ere  he  rode 

I  heard  his  steps  along  the  terrace  clang, 

And,  through  the  lattice  looking,  saw  him  take 

Our  Angelo,  who  stretched  out  both  his  arms, 

And  crowing  strove  with  aimless  hands  to  clutch 

The  nodding  feather  streaming  from  his  cap ; 

While  he  would  laugh,  and  with  his  black  beard  brush 

The  little  rosy  cheek,  or  with  his  lips 

Catch  the  fat  fingers  of  those  dimpled  hands ; 

The  little  creature,  not  the  least  afraid, 

\Vould  seize  his  beard,  and  scream  his  baby  scream. 

Or  pat  the  cold  steel  plate  above  his  heart. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  23 

Thus  far  it  went — no  farther.     Love  to  him 
Was  like  the  glitter  on  that  cold  steel  plate ; 
The  gleam  of  pride — not  the  impassioned  ray 
That  warms  and  glows  through  all  the  inner  life. 

I  strove  to  recompense  this  aching  want, 
This  thirsting  for  a  sympathetic  soul, 
With  thinking  of  my  child  and  loving  him. 
But  childish  love  is  pure  and  innocent, 
It  cannot  answer  to  the  passion's  call ; 
And  hopeless,  with  a  cruel  load  at  heart, 
I  held  my  way  unhappy  and  alone. 

Beat  as  I  would  the  bars  that  girt  me  round, 

From  my  stern  prison  of  necessity 

No  outlet  opened  save  into  the  air ; 

And  sitting  sorrowing  there,  my  wandering  thoughts 

Fled  far  and  wild,  and  built  ideal  dreams, 

And  happy  homes  made  beautiful  by  love ; 

Yet  still  the  end  was,  dropping  with  a  groan 

Down  to  the  same  unhappy  earth  of  fact, 

More  wretched  for  the  joys  that  could  not  be. 


24  GRAFFITI    D'lTALIA. 

I  linger  here — for  here  there  came  a  change. 
From  this  long  distance,  which  is  like  to  height, 
I  see  the  landscape  of  my  life  below. 
There  is  its  childhood's  little  garden  plot, 
Its  weary  marsh  of  stagnant  womanhood, 
Its  one  highway  of  duty — dusty,  hard, 
And  leading  nowhere.     Eagle-like  I  plane 
Above  its  drear  Maremma  solitudes, 
Where  there  is  ne'er  a  bird  to  sing  of  love ; 
And,  rising  far  along  the  horizon's  verge, 
Behold  the  darkening  storm  come  crowding  up, 
And  know  the  lightnings  that  are  hidden  there. 

Well,  let  me  say  it  all  at  once  :  I  loved. 
My  heart,  long  straining  with  its  strong  desires, 
And  hungered  with  a  vague  and  craving  want, 
Snapt  all  at  once  its  harsh  and  formal  bands. 
I  stood  alone  within  a  clouded  wood, 
When  sudden  sunlight  burst  upon  my  path  ; 
A  scent  of  unknown  flowers  rilled  all  the  air — 
.The  single  cymbal  with  another  clashed, 
And  wild  triumphant  music  shook  my  thoughts. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  25 

We  met — ah,  fatal  hour  !  we  met  and  loved  ; 
My  heart  rushed  to  him  as  the  tideless  lake, 
Nearing  the  sheer  precipitous  abyss, 
Rushes  to  ruin,  and  with  one  wild  burst 
Of  storm  and  splendour  down  the  rapids  whirling, 
Leaps,  white  with  passion,  to  the  lake  below. 
Vainly  the  trees  along  the  shadowy  shores, 
Quivering  with  fear,  cry  to  the  rapids,  "  Stop  ! " 
Vainly  the  hillsides  strive  to  hold  them  back  ; 
God's  glorious  rainbow  o'er  their  terror  glowing, 
They  rush  to  ruin,  as  we  rushed  to  ours. 

I  was  not  guilty — guilty  then  of  what  ? 

Say,  is  the  aloe  guilty  when  it  bursts 

To  its  consummate  flower,  death  though  it  bring  ? 

If  our  two  hearts,  surcharged  like  wandering  clouds 

With  love's  intensest  electricity, 

Borne  by  the  rushing  winds  from  north  and  south, 

Sent  down  the  blasting  lightnings  when  they  struck 

In  heaven's  broad  dome,  if  without  will  they  met, 

Was  it  our  fault  ?     No ;  guilt  is  prearranged, 

Is  wilful — it  demands  consent  at  least. 


26  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

How  could  we  help  it,  if  we  met  and  loved  ? 
If  this  be  guilt,  then  nature  is  all  guilt. 
The  love  I  bear  my  mother  and  my  child, 
The  very  hope  of  heaven  itself,  is  guilt ; 
The  very  wind  that  blows,  the  eye  that  sees, 
The  heart  that  beats,  are  guilty,  one  and  all. 
What  nature  works  in  man  and  thing  alike 
Is  innocent.     I  could  not  help  but  love. 

My  head  is  troubled  by  these  swarming  thoughts, 
But  I  have  need  to  speak,  so  let  me  speak. 
Hark  !  is  that  he  ?     Oh,  save  me  from  that  man  ! 
Save  me  !     No,  no,  you  shall  not  strike  him  here  ! 
Stab  at  him  through  my  heart,  then,  if  you  will ! 

Oh  yes,  I  see.     'Twas  but  the  jarring  door, 
The  wind.     Oh  yes,  I  see — only  the  door. 
'Tis  past.     I  am  not  wreak ;  let  me  go  on. 
No,  dearest,  no,  no,  no ;   let  me  go  on. 

The  tears  are  in  your  eyes ;  I  see  the  tears. 
Mine  are  all  wept  away,  years,  years  ago. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  2/ 

Oh  keep  your  heart  wide  open ;  take  therein 
The  floods  that  fro.m  grief's  open  sluices  pour, 
And  pity,  pity  what  you  cannot  change. 
Give  me  your  sympathy :  I  have  not  found 
For  such  long  years  a  patient  pitying  heart, 
That  now  I  feel  that  I  must  speak  or  die. 
From  fearful  nightmares  starting  suddenly, 
How  sweet  to  tell  the  horrors  we  have  passed, 
Knowing  they  all  have  passed  :  so  sweet  to  me 
These  dreadful  passages  of  life  to  tell — 
That  never,  never,  will  be  wholly  past. 

We  met — we  loved.     Oh,  what  a  world  there  lies 
In  those  four  words  !     'Tvvas  in  the  summer  days 
When  first. we  met — the  last  dear  day  of  June, 
That  was  the  day — and  love  from  bud  to  flower 
Rushed  with  the  sudden  passion  of  our  clime. 
You  know  the  shadowy  laurel  avenue, 
Where,  sheltered  from  the  sun,  we  used  to  stroll 
Those  summer  mornings  when  we  both  were  girls ; 
And  you  remember,  through  the  vista  seen, 
How  the  pomegranate  blossoms  glowed  like  fire 


28  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Against  the  old  grey  wall  above  the  door ; 

'Twas  there,  beneath  those  flowers,  I  saw  him  first. 

There,  walking  in  the  avenue  alone, 

I  heard  the  Count,  my  husband,  call  my  name, 

And,  looking  round,  just  in  the  shadow  there, 

I  saw  him  standing  at  my  husband's  side. 

"  Ginevra,"  said  the  Count,  "  my  cousin  here 

Claims  you  as  cousin  too,  since  we  are  one. 

I  bring  him  here  to  you,  for  I  am  forced 

(Against  my  will,  I  scarcely  need  to  say) 

To  change  a  private  joy  for  public  care, 

And  leave  him  for  a  time  in  better  hands. 

My  kinsman  graciously  excuses  me 

My  forced  departure  for  some  hours ;  till  then 

You'll  do  the  honours  of  our  house  for  me, 

And  I  alone  shall  suffer  all  the  loss. 

Ginevra,  entertain  our  noble  friend 

With  all  that  our  poor  villa  can  afford, 

And  piece  its  want  out  with  the  best  of  will." 

So  speaking,  in  his  formal,  courteous  way, 

He  took  his  leave,  and  we  were  left  alone. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  29 

You  see  he  left  us  there ;  me  fair  arid  young — 
I  was  so  young  then,  and  they  called  me  fair — 
He  in  the  full  completed  prime  of  youth, 
When  all  the  blood  runs  riot  in  the  veins, 
And  speaks  from  out  the  cheeks  and  lips  and  eyes. 
Oh,  Count,  was  this  well  done  to  leave  us  so  ? 

He  touched  my  hand,  and  bore  it  to  his  lips. 
'Twas  but  a  common  courtesy;  and  yet 
That  touch  ran  through  me  like  electric  fire, 
Thrilling  my  every  nerve.     At  once  his  look, 
By  some  peculiar  mastery,  seemed  to  seize 
And  to  possess  me,  and  I  felt  within 
A  tremulous  movement  in  my  thoughts,  as  when 
The  needle  blindly  struggles  towards  the  pole. 
He  too  was  moved — his  colour  came  and  went ; 
We  neither  were  at  ease,  we  knew  not  why ; 
And  so  together,  side  by  side,  we  strayed 
Through  the  clipped  alleys  of  the  laurel  walk, — 
Or  'neath  the  shadow  of  the  cypresses 
We  paused, — or,  leaning  on  the  parapet, 


30  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  gazing  into  purple  distances, 

Mechanically  plucked  from  out  its  clefts 

Some  tiny  flower  or  weed, — or,  lingering  near 

The  fountain's  marble  margin,  idly  watched 

The  gold-fish  poising  in  its  basin  clear; 

And  while  the  babbling  water  gushed  and  dripped, 

And  reared  its  silver  column  in  the  sun, 

And,  over-weighted,  dropped  in  pearls,  our  talk 

Kept  centring  to  our  feelings  from  the  range 

Of  outer  facts  with  which  it  first  began. 

Oh  golden  morning  !  there  you  seem  to  float 

Far  off  in  memory,  like  a  sun-flushed  cloud, 

With  roseate  heights,  and  tender  dove-like  shades ; 

No  lightning  in  your  bosom  hid,  no  threat 

Of  passion,  no  remorse  and  death  to  come. 

The  air  was  faint  with  orange-flowers  ;  the  grove 

Throbbed  with  the  beats  and  thrills  of  nightingales 

Hid  in  its  covert  green  ;  along  the  wall 

Flamed  the  pomegranate's  fiery  flowers ;  the  rich 

Rose  clusters  of  the  oleander  bloomed 

Soft  in  the  violet  shadows  o'er  them  cast 

By  the  grey  villa.     All  the  garden  seemed 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  31 

To  swarm  with  happy  life;  the  lizard  stole 

Along  the  fountain's  marge,  and  stayed  to  gaze 

With  a  shy  confidence ;  the  hawk-moth  poised 

Above  the  roses,  thrust  his  slender  trunk 

Into  their  honeyed  depths ;  on  gauzy  wings 

The  long  green  dragonfly  in  gleaming  mail 

Kept  darting  zigzag,  hovering  to  and  fro ; 

Hot  bees  were  bustling  in  the  flowers ;  with  soft 

And  aimless  flutter,  painted  butterflies 

Hung  drifting  here  and  there  like  floating  leaves, 

Or  rested  on  a  weed  to  spread  their  wings. 

All  nature  seemed  in  quiet  happiness 

To  live  and  move, — and,  thoughtless,  without  fear, 

I  shared  that  joy  in  harmony  with  it. 

Swiftly  the  morning  passed ;  and  yet  if  hours 

By  inward  change  be  counted,  ere  it  went 

Years  had  gone  by,  and  life  completely  changed. 

So  as  we  talked,  not  owning  to  ourselves 
The  silent  growth  of  love  that  was  to  bear 
At  last  a  poison-flower,  a  sudden  voice 
Startled  us  both.     I  knew  it  was  the  Count's, 


32  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  in  my  ear  it  sounded  like  a  bell 

That  harshly  scares  us  from  a  happy  dream. 

" Where  are  you?"    cried  he.     "Oh,   the  Count!"    I 

said, 

And  started  up,  and  saw  him,  cold  and  proud, 
Turn  the  green  corner  of  the  laurel  hedge, 
And  stand  before  us.     With  a  formal  speech 
He  broke  the  silence,  offering  excuse 
That  he  had  stayed  away  from  us  so  long, 
And  asking  pardon  for  disturbing  us, 
And  then  began  to  talk  in  stately  way 
Of  what  in  council  had  been  said  and  done, 
As  if  this  world  were  ours ;  and  then,  aghast, 
I  saw  the  chasm  those  short  hours  had  rent 
Between  his  soul  and  mine.     Like  some  dull  noise 
I  heard  him  talking  as  we  walked  along, 
While  all  my  thoughts  were  hurrying  within 
Wildly,  and  in  my  breast  my  fluttering  heart 
Was  beating  like  a  prisoned  bird.     At  last 
We  reached  the  house,  and  to  my  room  I  rushed 
For  silence  and  for  solitude.     Once  there, 
I  fell  upon  my  bed,  burst  into  tears, 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  33 

And  hid  my  face ;  for  then  I  saw  my  fate — 
Saw  it  rise  up  before  me  like  a  ghost. 

Thus  for  a  week  our  life  went  on  :  each  day 

The  Count,  made  blind  to  everything  by  pride, 

And  by  the  vanity  of  ownership, 

Left  us  along  the  garden  walks  to  stroll, 

Or  in  the  house  for  hours  alone  to  talk, 

Not  dreaming  that  his  wife  could  dare  to  love ; 

And  I  was  fearless  too  till  every  sense 

Had  drunk  Love's  sweet  insidious  poison  in. 

He  was  our  guest ;  my  husband  day  by  day 

Bade  me  be  with  him, — and  no  feigned  excuse — 

Excuse  that  was  against  my  will,  and  yet 

Feebly  put  forth,  some  barrier  to  rear 

'Twixt  love  and  duty — served  to  ope  his  eyes. 

He  blindly  pushed  us  down  that  plane  whereon 

Vainly  I  sought  for  stay  my  course  to  stop. 

How  then  resist  ?     Duty  is  strong  like  will — 
Passion  like  madness  !     I  was  wrenched  away 
From  all  that  used  to  hold  me ;  not  a  hand 
C 


34  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Reached  out  to  save  me.     Struggling  thus  alone, 
If  I  but  heard  the  Count's  stern  voice  below 
It  seemed  to  freeze  me ;  all  my  soul  in  arms 
Started  against  him.     Ah  !  no  help  was  there. 
Oh  !  how  confess  to  him,  and  ask  for  help  ? 

Then  all  my  soul  strained  out  to  find  a  way 

Back  unto  peace  at  least,  if  not  to  joy. 

Glancing  at  all  my  life  now  left  behind, 

What  was  there  to  restrain  me  ?     Angelo, 

My  darling  Angelo  !  His  little  arms, 

Clasped  close  around  my  neck,  should  hold  me  back 

From  where  my  life  was  sweeping  rapidly, 

Yet  all  without  my  will.     I  grasped  at  this. 

Alas  !  it  had  no  strength  to  save  me  then. 

We  walk  along  with  such  a  fearless  trust 
Through  unknown  dangers ;  yet  our  death  may  lie 
Within  one  drop  of  poison  that  the  ring 
On  a  friend's  hand  may  hold.     One  whispered  word 
May  shake  the  avalanche  down  upon  our  head — 
One  moment  more  or  less  destroy  or  save. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  35 

The  whole  vast  world  without,  and  that  within, 
Turn  on  a  pivot's  point,  and,  jarred  from  that, 
Both  universes  into  ruin  rush. 

'Twas  thus  with  me  :  before,  at  least,  secure, 

And  if  not  happy  yet  without  a  fear ; 

And  now  a  word,  an  hour,  had  changed  my  life. 

A  word  ?  an  hour  ?     Ah,  no  !  for  years  and  years, 

The  train  within  my  being  had  been  laid. 

My  cruel  disappointments,  broken  hopes, 

And  crushed  desires — a  black  and  ugly  mass, 

Were  powder  to  a  single  spark  of  love ; 

Oh  !  bid  that,  touched  by  fire,  not  to  explode. 

Yet  ah  the  bliss  of  loving  and  the  pain  ! 
For  I  had  never  lived  until  I  loved ; 
Yet  evermore  a  terror  'neath  the  bliss 
Constrained  it,  like  some  fearful  undertow, 
That  dimples  the  smooth  river's  sunlit  brim, 
To  drag  the  stoutest  swimmer  down  to  death. 

On,  on,  my  thoughts  went — there  was  no  return  ; 
One  backward  step  no  soul  can  ever  take. 


36  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

My  life  thus  far  had  been  as  dull  and  dead 
As  a  deserted  eagle's  nest  that  hangs 
In  the  black  shadow  of  an  Alpine  cliff— 
The  shining  saint-like  heights  too  far  above, 
The  humble  valley's  peace  too  far  below. 
Wild,  gusty,  furious,  with  a  moment's  wrench 
The  hurricane  of  passion  swept  me  down, 
And,  swirled  along  by  fierce  tumultuous  thoughts, 
Torn  from  the  past,  the  future  all  unknown, 
I  hovered  'twixt  the  sky  and  the  abyss. 

Broken  in  body,  spent  in  soul,  at  last 
I  gave  myself  to  Fate.     Do  what  thou  wilt, 
I  cried,  my  strength  is  gone — I  yield  to  thee ; 
Crush  me  or  save  me,  I  can  strive  no  more. 
Thus  all  my  sudden  passion  cried  in  me ; 
But  better  thoughts  at  last  with  time  arose. 
Perhaps,  perhaps,  I  said,  he  does  not  love  ; 
'Twas  my  own  heart  that  shone  upon  his  face. 
Oh  !  if  it  be  so,  all  may  yet  be  safe, 
And  I  will  hide  my  secret  from  his  eyes, 
And  only  act  and  speak  as  friends  may  do. 


GINEVRA   DA  SIENA.  37 

Yes,  let  me  struggle  for  a  while,  and  then, 
This  visit  over,  I  can  die  alone. 

Oh,  vain,  vain,  vain  I  day  after  day  I  saw 
That  love  consumed  his  heart  as  well  as  mine. 
Fate  set  its  face  against  us  from  the  first. 
Day  after  day  we  could  not  help  but  meet. 
All  stay,  all  resolution  formed  between 
Our  constant  meetings,  when  we  met,  gave  way. 
We  could  not  dash  the  cup  down  from  our  lips, 
Despite  the  poison  that  we  knew  it  held. 
He  strove  to  make  excuses  to  depart, 
But  still  he  lingered ;  and  in  constant  fear 
Each  that  our  love  might  blaze  into  an  act, 
Or  that  a  word  might  make  our  love  a  crime, 
Life  rushed  along  in  terrible  pretence. 

But  oh,  how  dear  for  all  their  pain  they  were, 
Those  blissful,  fearful  days  !     Left  all  alone — 
For  every  morning  went  the  Count  to  town, 
And  Guido  sometimes  would  not  brook  excuse — 
We  ranged  the  garden  'neath  the  laurel  shade ; 


38  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Or,  where  the  waving  trumpet-flowers  outstretched 

Their  red  tubes,  shaken  by  the  buried  bees, 

We  sat  together,  hiding  as  we  could 

With  veil  of  words  the  life  that  glowed  beneath. 

But  even  the  widest  circle  of  our  talk, 

Strive  as  we  would,  drew  to  one  centre — love ; 

And  there  he  told  me  of  his  early  days, 

And  all  his  early  hopes  and  joys  and  pains, 

And  painted  his  ideal  of  a  life  : 

Oh  what  a  life  it  was  ! — but  not  for  us. 

And  then  upon  the  pure  stream  of  his  voice 

Such  songs  of  poets  slid  into  my  soul ; 

So  sad,  too,  that  they  brought  the  brimming  tears  : 

And  oft  like  poplars  quivering  in  the  breeze 

We  trembled  with  the  joy  we  dared  not  own ; 

And  oft  we  started  up  on  some  excuse, 

And  left  each  other  when  we  could  not  bear 

Our  overburden — I  to  weep  and  pray, 

And  he,  dear  heart,  I  think,  to  do  the  same. 

One  day  we  talked  of  rings  as  there  we  sat — 
Of  Cleopatra's  she  dissolved  and  drank, 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA. 

And  of  Morone's,  whence  a  devil  spake. 

And  I  by  chance  upon  my  finger  wore 

This  which  I  wear  for  ever  now,  when  he, 

Taking  my  hand  and  looking  at  this  ring — 

"  Give  it  to  me,"  said,  jesting ;  "  I  will  swear 

I'll  ne'er  dissolve  it  Cleopatra-like  ; 

'Tis  but  a  little  thing — for  friendship's  sake 

Give  it  to  me,  and  when  I  look  at  it 

I'll  hear  an  angel,  not  a  devil,  speak." 

I  answered,  bantering,  "  Shall  I  give  it  you 

To  put  upon  the  first  fair  lady's  hand 

You  fall  in  love  with,  or  to  boast  to  men 

Here  is  a  trophy  ?     No,  Sir  Guido,  no ; 

You  think  you'll  keep  it,  but  I  know  you  men." 

"  Now  Heaven  be  witness,  never  shall  it  leave 

This  hand  of  mine  if  you'll  but  put  it  there. 

Shall  I  make  oath  ?     Then  hear  me,  cousin  mine  : 

I  swear  to  keep  the  ring  while  life  shall  last ; 

And  lest  it  fall  into  unworthy  hands, 

Dying  I'll  send  it  back  to  you  again. 

So  when  it  comes  without  me,  pray  for  me." 


40  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

"So  serious,"  answered  I;  "then  take  the  ring, 
And  we  shall  see  if  man  can  keep  his  oath." 

I  knew  the  inward  struggle — loved  him  more 
The  more  I  saw  him  fight  against  his  Fate. 
His  acts  were  only  common  courtesies, 
And  ne'er  a  word  betrayed  what  throbbed  within. 
Yet  were  words  wanting  ?     Ah  !  we  read  too  well 
The  passion  burning  in  each  other's  face, 
That  would  not  be  concealed  howe'er  we  strove. 
If  but  my  scarf  would  touch  his  hand,  a  flush 
Went  like  a  thrill  of  music  o'er  his  face, 
And  subtle  tones  transfigured  common  words. 
At  last,  convulsed,  in  one  wild  hour  he  told 
His  desperate  love  :  he  flung  him  at  my  feet ; 
His  heart  cried  out,  "  Oh  kill  me  where  I  lie, 
Here  where  I  kiss  the  print  your  foot  has  made 
Upon  the  grass  !     Oh,  dearer  here  to  die, 
Knowing  you  love  me,  than  to  weary  out 
The  death  of  life  afar  from  you,  my  heaven  !  " 

Oh  God  forgive  me  !  but  I  loved  him  so, 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  41 

That  honour  for  an  instant's  flash  went  out. 
All  my  resolves  burst  like  a  broken  dam, 
And  "  Up  ! "  I  wildly  cried ;  "  not  at  my  feet, 
Here  on  my  heart  thy  place — here  on  my  heart !  " 

Then  all  was  over ;  once  those  rash  words  said, 
We  never  more  could  meet  as  we  had  met ; 
Our  souls  gazed  at  each  other  face  to  face, 
And  saw  in  that  one  look  that  all  was  lost. 

Yet  do  not  think  that  guilt  then  stained  our  souls. 

Guilty  of  love  we  were — of  nothing  else ; 

But  thus  to  see  him  in  his  agony 

Was  worse  than  death.     I  could  not  even  say, 

Go  ! — for  I  feared  some  sudden  desperate  end. 

I  strove  to  soothe  him — /  to  soothe  him — / 

Who  burned  with  fiercer  flames  than  martyrs  know  : 

/  uttered  bitter  comfort — stretched  my  hand 

To  that  poor  sufferer  burning  at  my  side. 

And  when  he  cried,  "  Oh  God,  forgive  me  now  ! 

And  you,  Ginevra — oh  my  fate,  my  fate  ! " 

Though  death  griped  at  my  heart,  and  passion's  self 


42  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Struggled  with  duty  for  my  very  life, 

"  Patience,"  I  cried,  "  and  God  will  help  us  both 

Why  should  we  suffer  thus  who  do  no  wrong?" 

Then  starting  up,  and  pacing  to  and  fro, 

He  madly  struck  his  forehead,  crying  out, 

"  Oh  !  were  there  only  something  to  be  done, 

Not  something  to  be  suffered,  to  be  borne." 

Or  bitter  accusations  of  himself 

He  uttered,  saying,  "  I  have  broken  faith — 

Broken  my  oath  to  which  I  swore  myself— 

And  all  is  over  now.     No  more  dear  days, 

When  I  at  least  can  see  and  feel  you  near. 

'Tis  over  now — ah  yes  ! — all  over  now. 

I  feel  the  fire-sword  whirling  round  my  head 

To  drive  me  from  you,  out  of  Paradise." 

"  Oh,  say  not  so — we  cannot  help  our  love  ; 
And  though  we  may  not  meet  as  now  we  meet, 
A  way  may  yet  be  shown  we  cannot  see. 
Now  go — oh  leave  me,  Guido,  for  my  heart 
Is  breaking,  and  there's  no  more  life  for  me  !" 
I,  longing  to  console  his  tortured  heart, 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  43 

And  scarcely  knowing  what  I  meant  myself, 
Uttered  these  words,  and  tore  myself  away. 

Look  at  me  now — see  how  I  tremble  now ; 

Think  if  the  memory  can  tear  me  thus, 

What  agony  I  suffered  in  that  hour. 

Oh  dearest  Guido — dearest,  dearest  heart — 

It  was  not  sin  to  love  a  soul  like  yours, 

For  you  were  made  to  win  and  wear  the  best, — 

Not  one  like  me.     O  cruel,  cursed  Fate, 

Why  did  I  ever  live  beyond  that  hour  ! 

How  strange  the  world  looked  as  I  wandered  back 
Into  the  palace  !  what  a  broken  heart 
The  nightingale  had  then,  that  in  the  grove 
Throbbed  into  song  !  what  spirit-voices  sighed 
And  mourned  amid  the  cypresses  !  how  dear 
The  soft  blue  sky  looked,  and  how  peaceful  too, 
As   if  to   soothe   me !      Even   the   house   looked 

strange, 

Like  some  new  place  I  had  not  seen  before. 
I  walked  as  in  a  dream ;  I  could  not  bear 


44  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  common  things — the  common  speech  of  life ; 

All  that  I  asked  was  solitude  and  tears. 

For  two  long  weary  days  I  kept  my  room, 

Broken  in  body,  sick  to  death  at  heart ; 

And  as  I  lay  all  prostrate  on  the  floor 

After  a  sudden  agony  of  tears — 

One  of  those  bursts  with  which  the  tortured  soul 

Relieves  its  passion — came  a  sudden  knock ; 

It  seemed  as  Death  were  knocking  at  the  door. 

In  walked  the  Count ;  I  started  to  my  feet, 

I  strove  to  gather  my  disordered  dress, 

And  smooth  my  face,  and  wipe  away  my  tears. 

My  soul  revolted,  and  I  saw  his  eye, 

Dread  as  a  basilisk's,  upon  me  rest ; 

A  strange  expression,  never  seen  before, 

Was  brandished  there.     He  said,  "  Tis  very  strange 

Guido  is  gone,  and  leaves  a  note  behind, 

More  like  a  riddle  than  a  note ;  and  you " 

His  eyes  filled  up  the  gap  his  speech  had  left. 

"  Is  Guido  gone  ?  "  I  said ;  I  could  no  more. 

For  as  he  spoke  these  words  the  whole  world  seemed 

To  slip  beneath  me — all  my  world  was  gone. 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  45 

Such  weight  as  this  upon  the  suffering  heart 
Will  show  itself,  however  we  may  strive ; 
And  in  an  instant  all  my  secret  lay 
Before  his  gaze,  as  when  a  sudden  wind 
Blows  wide  the  closed  leaves  of  a  fatal  book. 
He  read  the  page — he  never  spoke  a  word, 
But  paused  a  moment,  read  it  up  and  down, 
Then  turned  and  left  me,  terribly  alone. 

The  evening  came  to  that  distracting  day — 

The  evening  comes  at  last  to  every  day. 

Exhausted,  in  a  hopeless  lull  of  life, 

I  watched  the  burning  sunset  slowly  fade, 

Till  all  the  clouds  from  rose  had  turned  to  pearl, 

And  in  the  sky  the  silver  splendour  shone 

Of  perfect  moonlight ;  on  the  shadowy  trees 

The  moon  looked  pitying  down,  as  if  it  sought 

To  give  me  consolation  from  above, 

And  Nature  seemed  to  whisper  me,  "  Come  forth." 

I  could  not  rest,  and  down  the  dappled  path, 

Where  light  and  shade  their  strange  mosaic  wove, 

Through  the  old  laurels  took  my  aimless  way. 


46  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

There,  half  as  in  a  dream,  I  wandered  on, 

And,  weeping,  praying,  strove  to  ease  my  pain. 

The  laurels  murmured,  "  Ah,  we  pity  you!" 

The  fountain  babbled,  "Ah,  unhappy  one!" 

The  nightingale  sang  out,  "  My  heart,  my  heart ! 

And  all  things  seemed  to  weep  and  pray  with  me. 

Hark  !  did  I  hear  a  step  upon  the  grass  ? 

Was  that  a  ghost  I  saw  amid  the  trees  ? 

Or  Guide's  self?  or  was  my  brain  disturbed  ? 

No;  in  the  shadow  there  was  Guido's  self; — 

"  Oh,  heaven  ! "  I  cried ;  "  Oh  Guido  !  are  you  here  ? 

Fly — fly  at  once  !     Oh  !  wherefore  are  you  here  ?  " 

He  rushed  to  me — and,  oh  !  that  glorious  face — 
So  haggard,  worn,  and  ravaged  with  its  woe — 
How  changed  it  seemed  since  I  had  seen  it  last ! 
I  cried  out,  "  Go  ! "  but  all  within  me  strained 
To  clasp  him,  own  him,  cling  around  his  neck ; — 
I  cried  out,  "Go  !"  as  one  in  madness  cries, 
"  Save  me  ! "  and  leaps  to  death  in  an  abyss. 
A  thousand  prayers  and  longings,  flinging  out 
Their  grasping  hands,  reached  forward  after  him, 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  47 

And  love,  with  all  its  sails  blown  sudden  out, 
Strained  at  the  cable  of  my  weakened  will. 

"  I  go — I  go  !  "  he  cried ;  "  I  but  returned 
To  kiss  again  the  ground  your  feet  had  pressed, 
To  watch  your  far  light  in  the  window  shine, 
To  see  your  wandering  shadow  there — and  then 
Plunge  back  into  my  desolated  world. 
But  God  hath  sent  you  here — He  pitied  me — 
He  saw  me  grovelling  like  a  tortured  worm 
Crushed  in  the  grass,  and  reached  His  hand  to  me. 
I  see  you,  hear  you,  touch  you,  once  again — 
And  can  it  only  be  to  say,  Adieu  ?  " 

"  Oh,  Guido,  fly  !  "  I  cried,  "  for  I  am  weak ; 
Fly  from  me  if  you  love  me — I  am  weak." 

He  stood  a  moment,  wrestling  with  himself, 
I  gazing  at  him ;  then  a  sudden  power 
Seemed  to  transform  him.     "  No  !  I  will  not  go  ! 
'Tis  all  in  vain — I  cannot,  will  not,  go  ! 
Once  I  have  fled,  fleeing  from  joy,  from  hope, 


48  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

From  life,  from  heaven.     Whose  hand  then  drew  me 

back? 

Who  led  your  footsteps  here  ?     Whose  hand,  I  say  ? 
Fate  gives  you  me  at  last !     Fate  makes  you  mine  ! — 
Life  is  but  mockery  bereft  of  you. 
Fly,  fly  with  me,  and  in  some  distant  spot, 
Hid  from  the  world,  we  may  be  happy  yet." 

His  passion  took  me  as  a  mighty  gale, 

Crowded  with  thunder,  drives  upon  the  elm, 

Till  all  its  straining  branches  groaning  cry, 

And  toss  their  helpless  turbulence  of  leaves, 

And  fall  at  last  in  one  despairing  crash ; 

So,  bearing  down  resolve,  and  blowing  wild 

All  my  disordered  thoughts,  his  passion  came. 

Defenceless — weakened,  both  in  strength  and  will — 

Against  this  new  arousing  from  within, 

Against  this  new  appealing  from  without, 

Vain  was  resistance  :  I  was  in  his  arms  ! 

He  seemed  to  hold  me  there  by  heaven's  own  right. 

The  world  was  for  a  moment  all  forgot — 

The  world  !     I  had  the  world  there  in  my  arms  ! 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  49 

Nothing  then  seemed  so  right,  so  pure,  as  love. 

Yes,  I  was  his,  irrevocably  his — 

Come  heaven,  come  hell,  irrevocably  his  ! 

'Twas  but  a  moment's  madness  seized  me  then — 

A  blank  of  reason  such  as  comes  to  one 

Who,  clinging  for  his  life  to  some  sheer  cliff, 

Feels  his  strength  going  and  his  senses  swim, 

And  death  come  swooping  down,  and  longs  to  drop 

And  end  it  all :  so,  for  a  moment's  space, 

I  swooned ;  and  then  God's  voice  within  me  cried 

"  No  ! "  and  uprising,  and  beneath  my  feet, 

Trampling  my  love,  with  gesture  stern  and  quick 

I  pushed  the  dearest  thing  in  life  away. 

I  know  not  whence  I  got  the  strength  I  had : 

Some  hand — whose  hand  but  God's  ? — uplifted  me. 

From  duty's  height  I  saw  the  war  below 

Of  my  own  passions  as  they  were  not  mine. 

"  Oh,  Guido,  shame  ! "  I  cried ;  "I  am  not  yours — 

You  mine — but  only  as  we  both  are  God's." 

That  was  a  height  to  die  on — but  I  lived ; 
Death  always  comes  too  early  or  too  late. 
D 


50  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

Life  had  its  claims  for  penance — so  I  lived  j 
Nor  will  I  murmur  more — perhaps  'tis  just. 

Those  words  of  mine,  like  an  electric  flash, 
Broke  the  strained  storm  of  madness  in  his  sky, 
And  the  great  shadow  and  the  rain  came  down — 
Shadow  as  of  despair, — yet  nobler  far, 
Dearer  in  his  despair  than  in  his  pride. 
The  prayers  he  uttered  for  forgiveness  then 
Were  worst  of  all  to  bear, — I  hear  them  still 
Ring  in  my  ears ;  that  face  of  his  I  see 
Streaming  with  tears ;  and  those  contorted  hands, 
Grasping  the  air,  or  torturing  themselves, 
Or  wildly  flung  to  heaven,  still  implore 
Our  dear  Madonna's  blessing  on  my  head — 
What  are  so  terrible  as  manhood's  tears  ? 
At  last  we  parted — Heaven  alone  knows  how — 
And  all  was  over ;  I  was  left  alone — 
Alone?     I  never  more  could  be  alone. 

The  owl  screamed  near  us  in  the  cypress-tree. 
Half-dead,  I  saw  him  go  as  in  a  dream, 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  51 

And  heard  his  footsteps  down  the  gravel  die. 

The  gate  swung  with  a  clang — "  My  God  !   my  God  ! 

Help  me  ! "  I  moaned  ;  only  the  owl  replied. 

I  dropped  upon  the  seat — I  hid  my  face 

Within  my  hands ;  all,  all  the  world  seemed  gone. 

I  longed  to  rise  and  call  him  back  again, 

But  my  feet  failed  me.     There  I  sat  alone, 

Like  him,  half-marble,  in  the  Arabian  tale, 

Charmed  by  foul  magic,  when  a  distant  sound 

Smote  on  my  ears.     It  was  the  clash  of  steel. 

I  started  up,  with  sudden  terror  fired, 

And  towards  the  gate  I  rushed.     My  flying  feet 

Grating  upon  the  gravel  hushed  the  sound. 

I  stopped  to  listen ;  there  it  was  again — 

And  voices,  too — oh,  Heaven  !     Again  I  fled ; 

Again  I  only  heard  my  grating  steps. 

I  gained  the  gate — I  listened — all  was  still. 

The  moon  broke  out  behind  a  cloud,  and  smote 

The  pale  broad  palace  front,  where  nothing  stirred  ; 

Only  the  tall  dark  cypresses  made  moan, 

And  the  hoar  olives  seemed  like  ghosts  to  flee 


52  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Across  the  hillside,  where  a  whisper  ran — 

"  Twas  but  his  sword  that  jangled  on  the  ground," 

I  said ;  "  for  see,  how  all  is  hushed  to  rest ! 

Poor  heart  of  mine,  that  trembles  at  a  breath, 

Be  calm  again,  and  cast  your  fear  away. 

But  ah  !  the  wretched  days  before  we  meet — 

The  sunless  days — yet  we  shall  meet  again." 

The  far-off  bell  upon  the  Campo  tower 
Struck  twelve  as  up  the  terrace-steps  I  went : 
I  paused  to  soothe  me  with  the  landscape  there. 
The  shadowy  earth  was  turning  in  its  sleep, 
And  winds  were  whispering  over  it  like  dreams ; 
The  luminous  sky  was  listening  overhead 
With  its  full  moon,  and  few  great  throbbing  stars — 
One  drowsing  like  a  sick  man,  sad  and  dark ; 
One  watching  like  a  spirit,  pure  and  bright. 
All  the  damp  shadow  clinging  to  the  ground, 
Shook,  with  innumerable  tiny  bells, 
Rung  by  the  grilli.     In  the  distant  pools 
Frogs  trilled  and  gurgled ;  every  now  and  then 
The  plaintive  hooting  of  the  owl  was  heard 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  53 

Calling  her  owlets  'mid  the  cypresses  ; 
Near  by,  the  fountain  spilled,  and  far  away 
The  contadino's  watchdog  bayed  and  barked  ; — 
Yet  all  these  sounds  were  soothed  and  harmonised 
By  night's  weird  hand ;  and  as  I  listening  stood, 
Leaning  against  the  columned  balustrade, 
By  aloe  vases  crowned,  my  turbulent  thoughts 
Were  calmed — I  looked  into  the  sky,  and  prayed. 

The  Count  not  yet  returned  ?     Then  all  is  safe. 

I  took  my  lamp,  and  up  the  marble  stairs 

My  heart  jarred  to  the  echoes  of  my  feet ; 

A  swinging  shutter  down  the  corridor 

So  startled  me,  I  nearly  dropped  the  light. 

Was  I  possessed  ?     Almost  it  seemed  to  me 

As  if  a  spirit  wandered  in  my  room. 

I  could  not  feel  alone  there ;  through  my  hair 

Ran  shudders,  and  a  creeping  o'er  my  flesh. 

I  searched  the  room,  but  there  was  nothing  there. 

My  silk  dress  as  it  rustled  on  the  chair 

Scared  me  ;  the  creeping  curtain  scared  me  too, 

And,  daring  not  to  move  a  hand  or  foot, 


54  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

I  listened  trembling.     There  was  nothing  there, 

Unless  it  was  a  ghost  I  could  not  see. 

My  nerves  were  all  ajar — the  buzzing  flies 

I  could  not  bear ;  but  worse  than  all,  the  sense 

Of  something — some  one — there  within  my  room. 

My  lamp  extinguished,  into  bed  I  crept, 

And  hid  me  'neath  the  sheets,  and  wept  such  tears, 

And  prayed  such  prayers,  as  desperate  creatures  pray. 

All  night  the  Count  returned  not  to  his  room ; 

No  step  I  heard,  though  long  I  lay  awake. 

'Twas  strange — 'twas  not  his  wont.   What  could  it  mean? 

Troubled  and  overworn,  at  last  I  slept, 

Haunted  by  dreams  that  ran  in  dreadful  ruts 

With  weary  sameness  through  my  aching  brain. 

The  morning  came — the  Count  was  absent  still. 

Haunted  by  vague  and  agitating  fears, 

I  waited  almost  as  one  waits  for  death ; 

And  after  torturing  hours,  that  seemed  like  years 

To  my  strained  sense,  I  heard  a  step.     The  door 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  55 

Turned  on  its  hinges,  and  there  stood  the  Count : 

A  cold  false  smile  was  on  his  lips ;  his  look 

Was  strangely  calm — not  real.     Those  hard  eyes 

Betrayed  a  purpose  that  belied  the  lips — 

Belied  the  courtesy  so  overstrained. 

"  I  fear  you  did  not  look  for  me,"  he  said ; 

"  Nor  have  I  tidings  that  can  give  you  joy. 

I  came  a  sacred  promise  to  fulfil — 

One  I  could  not  refuse ;  and,  as  you  know, 

All  promises  are  sacred  that  I  make. 

I  promised  Guido  in  your  hands  to  place 

This,  which  he  took  from  you,  and  now  returns." 

Saying  these  words,  he  on  the  table  laid 

My  ring — the  ring  that  I  to  Guido  gave. 

Oh  what  an  awful  light  was  in  his  eyes  ! 

Oh  what  a  devil's  smile  was  on  his  lips  ! 

As  there  he  stood,  still  as  a  marble  man. 

My  heart  stopped  beating,  numbed  by  hideous  fear — 

There  was  a  silence  terrible  as  death : 

The  terror  stunned  me,  and  I  could  not  speak. 

Speak  ! — no,  I  could  not  feel.     There  was  no  sense 


56  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

In  anything ;  my  very  blood  was  ice. 

I  could  not  tell  an  instant  if  'twere  he, 

My  husband,  standing  there — or  if  'twere  I 

Who  stood  before  him.     Then  I  reeled  and  fell — 

I  did  not  swoon ;  I  dropped  into  my  chair 

Like  one  knocked  down  with  an  invisible  blow. 

He  moved  not ;  but  an  instant  after  said, 

Slowly — his  words  like  to  the  first  great  drops 

That  tell  the  storm  is  coming,  forced  between 

His  thin  white  lips — "Your  cousin,  madam, 's  gone; 

That  ring  he  sent ;  he  said  you'd  understand." 

" Oh  God  !  God  !  God  ! "  I  cried,  "it  is  not  true  ! 
What  do  you  mean  by  gone  ? — speak,  speak  to  me  ! 
Say  'tis  but  a  dream — oh,  tell  me  'tis  a  jest ; 
Oh  yes,  it  is  a  jest,  or  you'd  not  smile." 

"Jest !     Do  I  look,  then,  like  a  jesting  man? 
Madam,  your  lover,  after  your  last  kiss, 
Wiped  my  dishonour  out  with  his  heart's  blood. 
He  knew  the  wrong  he  did — saw  for  us  two, 
After  such  scene  as  that  of  yesternight 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  57 

The  world  was  narrow ;  so  he  bravely  fell 
To  expiate  the  cruel  wrong  he  did." 

"  Dead  !  dead  !  oh  God  !  oh  Guido  !— oh  my  God  !  " 
Something  like  this  I  shrieked,  and  moaned  and  fell. 

Slowly  at  last,  and  after  hours,  returned 

My  scattered  senses ;  and  long  days  went  by — 

Eternities  of  utter  reckless  woe  ; 

With  bursts  of  agony  and  burning  tears, 

And  daring  hopes  that  all  might  be  a  lie, 

Mingled  with  prayers,  half-raving,  after  death. 

I  almost  looked  on  God,  who  sent  the  sun, 

As  heartless.     Why  should  flowers  and  blossoms  grow  ? 

Why  should  all  nature  look  so  bright  and  fair, 

And  birds  be  singing,  and  the  world  be  gay, 

Except  to  mock  me  with  its  happiness  ? 

Then  came  as  strong  revulsions ;  ne'er  before 

Knew  I  what  wickedness  was  in  my  heart 

In  the  excited  tumult  of  my  brain 

I  could  not  see  the  right — I  felt  the  wrong ; 

The  great  black  hand  of  death  before  my  eyes 


58  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Darkened  my  conscience.     Oh  such  savage  thoughts 
As  then  roused  up  and  ravaged  in  the  dark  ! 
I  could  not  calm  myself  to  right  resolve ; 
Forgiveness  seemed  impossible  to  reach — 
Starlike ;  but  vengeance  like  a  devil  stood 
And  offered  me  its  sword,  and  tempted  me, 
And  would  not  let  me  hear  the  angel's  voice ; 
But  still  that  sweet  persistent  voice  within 
Kept  calling,  till  it  conquered  all  at  last. 
I  would  forgive  and  crave  forgiveness  too. 

So  governing  the  wild  and  cruel  thoughts 
That  growled  for  vengeance,  I  awaited  him. 

At  last  he  came ;  cold,  stern,  and  dignified, 
That  mask  of  honour  came  into  my  room. 
"  Well,  sir,"  I  said,  "  you  see  me  broken,  crushed, 
Ruined — a  helpless,  wretched,  tortured  thing. 
If  I  have  been  imprudent,  heedless,  wrong — 
For  so  I  was — you  are  at  least  avenged  : 
Your  foot  has  trodden  on  my  erring  heart, 
As  if  I  were  a  worm  upon  your  path. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  59 

See  how  it  writhes  !     Oh,  sir  !  are  you  content  ? 
May  God  forgive  you  for  your  cruel  wrong, 
And  help  me  in  my  struggles  to  forgive." 

"  Forgiveness  !  wrong  !   Your  choice  of  terms  is  strange. 

/  crave  forgiveness  ?     Let  that  task  be  yours  ; 

Ask  it  upon  your  knees  of  God  and  me. 

Wrong  ?     There's  no  wrong  but  what  belongs  to  you. 

Though  I  regret  what  honour  made  me  do, 

I  did  my  duty ;  had  you  done  but  yours, 

All  would  be  smooth  and  happy  as  it  was." 

"  Happy  !  oh  when  was  happiness  for  me, 

Or  when  again  shall  happiness  be  mine  ? 

Happy?     Where's  Guido?     Tell  me  that  he  lives; 

You  could  not  speak  of  happiness  to  me, 

If  you  had  killed  him  for  a  fault  of  mine. 

Say  'twas  a  jest  you  used  to  frighten  me — 

Say  this,  and  I  will  never  see  him  more. 

Oh,  I  will  do  my  duty  with  a  smile, 

Bless  you,  and  crave  forgiveness — do  your  will, 

And  fetch  and  carry  for  you  like  a  dog." 


60  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

"  Your  duty  !     Yes,  I  think  you  will  indeed ; 
I  shall  take  heed  of  that.     Not  see  him  more  ? 
For  that,  too,  my  security  is  good, — 
I  am  not  used  to  do  my  work  by  halves." 

Then  the  desire  of  death — my  love — his  blood — 
The  pride  and  cruel  calmness  of  the  Count — 
The  taunting  smile  with  which  he  looked  at  me, 
Roused  all  the  evil  passions  I  had  quelled. 
All  things  will  turn  when  tortured,  and  I  cried, 

"  Oh,  kill  me  then,  too,  with  the  self-same  sword ! 
Oh  how  I  scorn  you !  let  your  passion  speak ! 
I  loved  him — -loved  him — loved  him,  do  you  hear  ? 
Out  with  your  sword  if  you  have  any  heart ! 
Kill  me  in  pity,  since  you've  murdered  him." 

"  Murdered  !  no,  hand  to  hand  and  point  to  point, 
With  every  chance,  he  fell ;  he  owned  his  wrong. 
There  lives  no  man  in  whom  a  single  spark 
Of  honour  burns,  that  had  not  done  as  I ; 
I  gave  him  every  chance — he  lost,  and  fell." 


GINEVRA   DA  SIENA.  6 1 

"  I  say  I  loved  him  better  than  my  life." 

"  For  that  I  killed  him.     He  will  love  no  more." 

"  He  loves  me  still, — above  as  I  below. 

Oh,  I  am  his,  he  mine,  beyond  your  power — 

You  do  but  part  us  for  a  little  space ; 

And  in  the  future,  after  life  is  o'er, 

My  soul  shall  rush  to  clasp  him  closer  there, 

Than  could  my  human  arms  when  here  on  earth." 

"  Ginevra  !  do  you  heed  the  words  you  use  ? 
You  dared  not  more  than  let  him  speak  of  love  ? 
Silent?     You  leave  me  then  to  think  the  worst." 

"Think  what  you   choose — do   what  you   choose — I 

loathe 
Alike  your  foul  thoughts  and  your  cruel  act." 

"  Then  my  name's  blasted  and  my  honour  stained, 
And  I  have  blazoned  it  to  all  the  world." 

"  Your  name,  your  honour  stained !     Ay,  so  it  is ! 


62  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

But  not  by  me,  not  by  my  guiltless  love — 
Guiltless,  though  fatal.     Not  a  thought  for  mine 
Held  back  your  hand.     Blindly,  through  Guide's  life, 
My  honour  too  you  struck  at,  blazoning 
To  the  wide  world  that  ours  was  guilty  love." 

"  I  would  to  God  that  none  of  this  had  been  !" 

"  Nor  had  it  ever  been,  except  for  you. 

You  bound  the  life  of  Guido  unto  mine  ; 

You  brought  him  here,  you  tempted  both  of  us, 

And  now  affect  surprise  to  find  we  loved. 

Careless  of  others,  centred  in  yourself, 

You  could  not  claim  a  love  you  never  gave. 

What  debt  beyond  allegiance  did  I  owe  ?  " 

"  What  have  you  ever  asked  that  was  not  given  ? 

My  wealth,  my  name,  my  rank,  my  house,  were  yours, 

And  in  return  you  stain  my  ancient  name, 

For  all  the  world  to  point  its  finger  at. 

A  husband's  duty  I  at  least  have  done — 

And  honestly,  I  think.     Have  you  a  wife's  ?  " 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  63 

"  I  have  done  all  I  could.     O  pity  me, 
And  do  not  urge  a  desperate  creature  on. 
Think  what  I  suffer.     Pity  and  forgive. 
I  own  my  fault — I  ask  you  to  forgive. 
I  was  not  all  to  blame ;  you,  too,  must  bear 
A  portion  of  the  wrong — at  least  be  just." 

"  What  was  my  fault  ? — what  portion  of  the  wrong  ? 
Be  just,  you  say.     Of  course  I  shall  be  just." 


"For  this,  at  least,  you  were  to  blame:  you  swore 

To  love,  to  honour,  and  to  cherish  me 

For  all  my  life.     How  did  you  keep  your  oath  ? 

You  left  me  all  defenceless  to  be  prey 

To  solitude,  to  idleness,  to  chance. 

What  have  I  asked,  you  say,  that  was  not  given  ? 

Love,  love — 'twas  that  I  craved ;  not  title,  wealth, 

Or  name,  but  daily  acts  of  tenderness. 

God  knows  how  long  I  strove,  how  earnestly, 

To  patch  with  duty  the  great  gap  of  love. 

It  would  not  do ;  my  nature  yearned  for  more. 

Well !  give  a  starving  wretch  upon  a  wreck 


64  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

A  golden  florin  when  he  cries  for  bread  ! 
Will  it  suffice  ?     No ;  'tis  mere  mockery. 
And  so  were  all  your  vaunted  gifts — no  flower 
In  the  chill  ruin  of  my  hopes  you  left ; 
By  heartless  duties,  dull  routine,  you  froze 
My  eager  nature ; — Sudden,  like  the  breath 
Of  southern  spring,  with  all  its  roses  in  it, 
Love  breathed  across  me — all  my  life  broke  up 
Like  some  great  river's  ice  at  touch  of  spring, 
And  I  was  borne  in  one  great  burst  away." 

"  Fine  phrases — pretty  pictures — nothing  more  ! 
And  did  no  thought  of  honour  hold  you  back  ?  " 

"  Honour  !  ah,  honour  !  wretched  mud-built  dam  ! 
Could  that  avail  to  stem  the  swollen  stream  ? 
Acts,  yes — but  nothing  else.     If  I  was  stunned, 
Aghast,  to  feel  the  formless  dreams  of  love 
Take  passion's  tyrannous  and  threatening  shape, 
What  help  was  there  ?    Oh  no,  you  cannot  see  ! 
As  well  the  stagnant  pool,  all  creamed  with  green, 
Sees  why  the  torrent,  shaking  its  white  spray, 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  65 

And  mad  with  all  the  tumult  of  its  course, 

Can  pause  not  on  the  brink  of  the  abyss. 

Who  put  temptation  in  my  very  path  ? 

You — you  who  should  have  held  me — dragged  me  down. 

What  right  had  you  to  leave  me  to  such  chance  ?  " 

"  It  was  a  fault,  I  see — it  was  a  fault. 

But  who  could  think  you  such  a  worthless  thing 

As  take  the  first  fair  apple  Satan  gave  ? 

Curse,  curse  the  hour,  oh  woman,  when  you  did  ! 

His  blood  is  on  your  hands,  and  not  on  mine ; 

WTipe  it  away,  then,  if  you  can,  with  words. 

You  knew  the  path  you  trod  led  straight  to  death. 

You  ventured  all — your  fame — my  name — his  life — 

For  what  ? — to  satisfy  a  moment's  whim. 

You,  like  a  child  that  sees  a  pretty  flower 

That's  caught  a  holding  down  a  precipice, 

Dared  everything  to  wear  it  on  your  breast. 

Your  foot  slipped — why,  of  course,  of  course  it  slipped, 

Weak  woman-brain — and  down  to  death  you  went. 

Go,  wet  his  grave  now  with  your  idle  tears ; 

Will  they  bring  back  the  life  you  sacrificed  ?  " 

» 
E 


66  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

"  Oh,  had  you  loved  me  this  had  never  been  ! 

I  sought  a  flower  ? — I  sought  it  for  a  whim  ? — 

Ah,  no  !     Love  tempted  with  a  ripe,  rare  fruit, 

A  starving  creature,  who  refused  the  gift, 

And  laid  her  down  to  die  for  honour's  sake. 

I  did  refuse  it — yes,  you  know  I  did. 

Nay,  look  not  on  me  with  that  devil's  smile ; 

It  makes  me  almost  hate  you.     Not  alone 

'Tis  love  you  lack,  but  pity,  but  remorse, 

But  conscience  !     Never  shall  that  hand  again, 

Stained  by  his  blood,  touch  mine — 'tis  widowed  now. 

Nay,  play  not  with  your  poniard, — out  with  it ! 

Strike  !  there's  no  thing  that  wants  its  death  so  much. 

Strike  !  here  I  stand.     Strike  as  you  struck  at  him  ! 

Strike,  soul  of  honour  !     Ah  !  you  calculate — 

Your  cold  blood  cannot  stir.     I  see  your  eyes — 

They  are  arranging.     No,  it  will  not  do 

To  trust  an  impulse — you  must  think  it  out. 

Oh  be  a  man  for  once,  and  dare  to  strike  ! " 

I  know  I  touched  him — touched  him  to  the  quick ; 
I  saw  it  in  the  twitching  of  his  hands  : 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  6/ 

Yet  there  he  stood,  with  his  contemptuous  smile 
That  maddened  every  feeling.     All  at  once 
A  sudden  cord  within  my  brain  gave  way ; 
The  pulse's  hammers  in  my  temples  beat. 
The  last  thing  that  I  saw  was  his  black  eyes — 
I  see  them  still ;  then  with  a  cymbal's  clash 
The  sunlight  shattered  to  a  myriad  sparks ; 
And  what  became  of  me,  God  only  knows. 

When  to  my  senses  I  again  returned, 

I  felt  myself  borne  rapidly  along 

In  a  horse-litter.     To  my  brain  confused 

All  the  last  scene  came  back  again  to  me ; 

For  every  word  had  burned  into  my  soul, 

But  not  as  aught  that  really  had  been, 

Only  an  ugly,  wild,  and  hideous  dream ; 

And  mixed  with  it  a  thousand  horrid  thoughts. 

That  seemed  as  real  as  the  actual  were. 

I  tore  the  curtains  open,  and  looked  out : 
I  asked  no  question — for,  had  I  been  dead, 
I  had  not  cared  less  what  they  did  with  me  ; 


68  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Life  had  gone  by — 'twas  just  the  same  as  death 

When  on  the  floor  I  fainted.     Now  I  woke 

Into  a  kind  of  life  that  was  not  mine  : 

The  night  itself  was  weird,  like  all  my  thoughts  ; 

Strange  clouds  piled  wildly  all  along  the  sky, 

And,  hurrying  to  and  fro,  shut  out  its  light. 

The  earth  was  swallowed  up  in  heavy  dark ; 

Low  thunder  growled ;  at  sudden  fits  the  sky 

Winked  with  white   lightnings   'neath   the   black   low 

brows 

Of  clouds  along  the  horizon,  and  glared  out 
Across  the  world,  and  showed  the  trembling  trees 
Ghastly  against  it ;  then  the  black  again 
Swallowed  the  world  up,  and  I  heard  great  drops 
Beat  on  the  leaves.     From  one  low  threatening  cloud, 
That  rose  to  meet  us,  leaped  out  suddenly 
A  crinkled  snake  of  fire,  then  darted  in ; 
And  thunder  trampled  with  tumultuous  roar  : 
Or  was  it  rather  that  the  angel  flashed 
His  sword  of  jagged  fire  that  drove  me  out 
From  Paradise,  and  God's  dread  voice  I  heard 
Behind  the  cloud  to  threaten  my  lost  soul  ? 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  69 

All  worn  and  weak,  and  shattered  in  my  nerves, 
I  could  not  bear  the  sight ;  and  back  I  fell, 
Only  half-conscious ;  and  I  seemed  to  feel 
The  horse's  hoofs  keep  beating  on  my  brain ; 
And  now  and  then  a  startling  thunder-peal. 
All  sense  of  time  was  gone.     At  last  I  slept, 
Or  swooned — for  all  things  faded  into  blank. 

What  happened  afterwards  I  do  not  know  : 
What  first  I  saw,  when  any  sense  came  back, 
Were  these  four  walls,  and  my  old  Rosa's  face 
Looking  on  mine  with  pity  as  she  bent 
Above  my  pillow,  and  I  heard  her  say, 
"  Oh  blessed  Virgin  ! — see,  she  wakes  at  last ! " 

From  that  day  forward,  now  for  ten  long  years, 

Here  is  my  prison ;  here  the  sad  sun  shines, 

But  never  shines  for  me  a  loving  smile. 

His  face,  that  would  have  made  the  dreariest  spot 

A  paradise,  has  gone  beyond  the  world ; 

And  he  that  spared  my  life  and  crushed  my  heart, 

Since  that  last  day  has  never  looked  on  me. 


70  .GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

This  is  his  vengeance — he  has  hid  me  here, 

Beyond  all  hope  of  change,  to  waste  away, 

Unloved,  uncared  for,  like  an  outcast  thing, 

To  suck  the  fever's  pestilential  air, 

And  see  the  sad  Maremma's  lonely  waste, 

And  hear  the  beating  of  the  restless  sea ; 

While  in  its  marsh  of  drear  monotony, 

Life  breeds  its  poison-thoughts,  and  wastes,  and  rots. 

Ah  death!    death!    death!    how  have  I  prayed  for 

you  ! 

You  take  the  happy,  fold  them  in  your  arms, 
And  kiss  them  to  the  slumber  of  the  blest ; 
But  from  my  path  in  scorn  you  turn  aside. 

Oh  !  think  what  years  they've  buried  me  alive 

In  this  drear  villa  all  alone,  alone ; 

Long  days  alone — long,  long  black  nights  alone ; 

And  I  was  never  over-brave,  you  know. 

Imprisoned  with  the  recollected  past, 

Without  a  future,  weak  with  illness  too, 

I  grew  to  fear  my  very  self  (what  more 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  7 1 

Is  there  on  earth  to  fear?)     My  eyes  looked  strange 

In  these  blear  mirrors.     Through  the  noiseless  night 

Often  I  lay  and  shuddered  in  the  blank 

Dead  waste  of  darkness,  while  my  great  square  room 

Seemed  like  a  shadowy  tomb  to  shut  me  in ; 

And  all  the  darkness  weighed  on  me  like  death. 

Then,  straining  out  into  the  empty  void, 

My  eyes  made  globes  of  pale  electric  fire, 

That  swelled  and  faded  into  globes  of  black, 

And  hours  I  used  to  watch  them  come  and  go. 

Nor  was  it  better,  when  the  sad-faced  moon 

Mocked  at  me  in  its  far-off  silentness. 

Daylight  at  times  was  worse  :  the  blazing  sun 

Flashed  on  the  sea  that  shook  its  burning  plates, 

And  through  the  shutters'  slightest  chink  peered  in 

To  crawl  and  quiver  on  the  ceiling  there. 

Hide  as  I  would,  I  felt  the  fierce  white  noon 

Seethe  round  the  house  and  eat  into  my  room, 

In  busy  silence  prying  to  and  fro 

As  if  in  search  of  me.     All  was  so  still, 

Despite  the  shrill  cicale's  saw  without, 

And  maddening  burring  buzz  of  flies  within. 


72  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

Even  the  melancholy  wash  of  waves 

Broke  not  the  silence — nor  the  voiceless  pines, 

That  always  whispered  though  the  breezes  slept. 

Only  my  echoing  feet  in  the  great  hall, 

As  to  and  fro  I  paced,  broke  the  dead  calm. 

And  thus  the  dreary  weary  days  passed  by — 

No  duty  to  be  done,  no  life  to  live ; 

For  surely  what  I  lived  was  never  life. 

Was  it,  then,  strange  I  lost  my  head  at  last  ? 
But  that  is  over  now,  and  passed  away ; 
'Tis  Only  when  the  fever  comes,  my  thoughts 
Dance  to  discordant  music.     Then  at  times 
They  seem  to  gather  to  a  single  point, 
And,  widening,  whirl  and  whirl  with  buzz  and  din 
Till  all  the  world  swarms  like  a  spinning  mass, 
And  down,  down,  down,  as  in  a  maelstrom's  cone, 
My  spirit,  worn  with  struggle,  madly  goes, 
Like  a  lost  ship,  and  all  becomes  a  blank. 
Thus,  helpless,  down  the  vortex  borne  I  reel, 
Until,  the  fever  gone,  a  wretched  wreck 
Flung  out  I  find  me  on  the  shores  of  life. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  73 

Ah  !  dearest,  Joy  unto  the  spirit  is 
What  light  is  to  the  flowers — no  colour  else. 
Joy  is  the  voice  of  Good — the  voice  of  God ; 
And  when  my  heart  was  barren  of  all  joy, 
It  sicklied  like  a  plant  derived  of  light. 

I  have  been  mad— who  would  not  have  been  mad  ? — 
And  hideous  visions  have  obscured  my  soul. 
Long  time  some  dreadful  thing  I  had  to  hide — 
Some  vague  and  dreadful  thing,  without  a  name. 
Here  in  the  walls  it  lived  and  peeped  at  me ; 
Long  lonely  nights  kept  whispering  at  my  blinds  , 
Leaped  out  of  flowers  when  I  had  gathered  them, 
And  placed  them  on  my  bosom ;  with  its  laugh 
Scared  the  still  noon,  and  would  not  let  me  rest. 

That  went  at  last,  though  sometimes  it  returns  ; 
And  though  I  know  'tis  all  a  hideous  dream, 
Yet  through  my  tangled  thoughts  so  long  it  trod, 
It  wore  a  track  there  that  will  never  go. 
And  for  a  moment  often  it  returns, 
And  I  seem  mad  because  I  speak  of  it ; 


74  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

But  do  not  think  I'm  mad,  or  not  more  mad 

Than  any  human  creature  kept  so  long 

In  this  wild  place  alone,  and  with  such  things. 

When  all  is  dark,  on  dismal  gusty  nights, 
Ghosts  wander  all  around  this  lonely  house, 
And  smothered  groans  and  stifled  shrieks  I  hear, 
That  mingle  with  the  beating  of  the  sea. 
Sometimes  the  giant  rafters  creak  and  strain, 
And  overhead  there  rush  tumultuous  feet, — 
Or  slow  and  heavy  steps,  with  clank  of  spurs, 
Stride  nearer,  nearer  up  the  sounding  stairs, 
Till,  wild  with  fear,  I  see  the  shaking  door 
Swing  open  slowly  on  its  creaking  hinge, 
To  let  some  ghastly  unseen  horror  in. 
But  most  I  dread  to  pass  that  banquet-hall, 
Where  rotting  cobwebs  flaunt  their  dusky  flags 
From  its  black  beams — or  up  the  chimney  suck, 
When  through  its  sooty  throat  the  tempest  roars ; 
For  then  fierce  spirits  seem  to  hold  carouse, 
And  with  their  hideous  revelry  and  laugh 
Jar  the  loose  windows ;  and  the  shields  and  swords 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  75 

Clang  on  the  walls  as  if  they  longed  for  blood. 
All  this,  you'll  say,  is  fancy.     Live  here,  then, 
Through  the  drear  winter  all  alone,  alone, 
With  these  wild  terrors  grasping  after  you. 
Oh  God  !  we  were  not  made  to  live  alone — 
We  all  go  mad  if  we  are  left  alone. 

My  child,  too.     Ah,  my  little  Angelo  ! 

Where  are  you  now  ? — Oh,  tell  me  where  he  is  ! 

That  little  rosy  face  that  hid  itself 

Around  my  neck  with  both  hands  clasping  it. 

Oh,  such  long  years  since  I  have  felt  those  hands  ! 

How  cruel,  cruel,  from  my  arms  to  tear 

The  only  thing  he  gave  me  that  I  loved  ! 

How  many  nights  I've  dreamed  that  he  was  here ; 

How  many  mornings  waked,  and  wept,  and  wailed 

To  find  me  here  alone — more  desolate 

For  the  sweet  dream  that  came  and  went  at  will. 

He  has  grown  up  to  boyhood  now,  I  know. 

He  has  forgotten  me — my  name's  a  word 

Banned  to  his  lips — he  knows  not  that  I  live  ; 

Yet  in  my  memory  how  alive  he  is, 


76  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

A  baby  blessing — with  those  four  white  teeth 
Gleaming  beneath  the  little  sudden  smile, 
The  dimpled  elbows  and  the  rosy  feet 
Never  at  rest — the  unformed  chirping  words 
Like  a  bird's  language — all  the  many  ways 
With  which  he  crept  into  my  very  heart. 
Oh  !  'twas  a  cruel  act,  a  wicked  act, 
To  tear  him  from  me.     How  has  he  grown  up 
Without  a  mother's  love?     Oh,  justice,  Count  !- 
Your  justice — did  it  soothe  his  little  cries? 
He  has  your  name,  but  not,  I  pray,  your  heart. 
One  drop  of  love  is  worth  a  well  of  pride. 

Why  should  I  cling  to  life  ?     A  hundred  times 
I've  pressed  this  dagger  to  my  throbbing  heart- 
A  hundred  times  I  have  not  dared  to  strike ; 
And  yet  how  blest  a  thing  were  death  to  me  ! 

I  think  at  last  my  time  is  drawing  near. 
Ah,  heaven  !  I  hope  'tis  drawing  near  at  last, 
I  have  so  suffered.     Even  he  would  strike 
That  sword  of  his  in  justice  to  my  heart. 


GINEVRA   DA   SIENA.  77 

He  would  relent,  I  think — I  hope  he  would — 
Could  he  but  see  me  now;  even  he  to  whom 
Mercy  is  slow  to  whisper,  would  forgive. 
Justice  so  strained  is  vengeance,  nothing  more — 
All  has  so  changed,  and  I  was  wrong,  I  know. 
Yet  no  !     What  do  I  say  ? — he,  he  forgive  ? 
Never  !     They  only  can  forgive  who  love. 
He  knows  not  pity  for  an  erring  heart. 
Justice  and  honour : — these  two  are  his  gods  ; 
To  them  alone  his  sacrifice  is  given. 

Why  do  I  rail  at  him  ?     Do  I  forgive  ? 

Am  I  so  free  from  blot  ?     Was  I  all  right  ? 

Ah  no  !  we  both  were  wrong,  we  all  were  wrong  ! 

In  these  long  days  reviewing  all  the  past 

I  know  and  feel  how  very  wrong  we  were. 

I  plainly  see  (the  passion  cleared  away) 

No  fit  excuse  for  Guido  and  for  me. 

Tempted  we  were  beyond  our  human  power ; 

But  after  marriage-vows,  if  love  come  in, 

Its  torture  we  must  own  and  bear — like  death. 

My  punishment  is  just — his  too,  perhaps  ; 


78  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

But  man  is  not  to  blame  as  woman  is. 
Mine  was  the  greater  fault :  I  led  him  on, 
He  loved  me  so ;  and  he  was  all  alone. 

I  should  have  checked  his  love  when  it  began ; 

I  should  have  bade  him  go,  and  turned  my  thoughts 

To  household  duties  ;  but  I  played  with  fire. 

And  mine  the  fault  that  both  were  sacrificed. 

The  Count  was  not  so  wrong  as  then  he  seemed ; 

And  from  his  view  his  deed  was  justified. 

And  he  has  suffered  too — and  I  forgive — 

Yes,  as  I  need  forgiveness,  I  forgive. 

And  so  I  pray  for  all,  even  for  the  Count ; 

And,  looking  forward,  fix  my  eyes  above, 

To  meet  my  Guido  when  this  life  is  past. 

What  matters  it  ? — a  few  short  years,  or  months, 
Or  weeks,  perhaps — or  even  a  few  more  days — 
And  I  shall  be  with  him,  where  love's  no  crime, 
And  God,  who  sees  the  heart,  will  pity  me. 
Oh,  yes  !  God's  law  is  tenderer  than  man's. 
He  is  not  only  just — but  pity  too, 


GINEVRA  DA   SIENA.  79 

And  love,  unbounded  love,  He  has  for  all ; 
And  He  will  make  all  smooth  and  right  at  last. 
So  let  me  weep  upon  your  breast,  dear  friend — 
My  only  solace  for  these  long  long  years. 
God 'will  remember  you  for  this — His  arm 
Is  long — His  memory  will  never  fail ; 
And  He  will  make  all  smooth  and  right  at  last. 


PADRE   BANDELLI    PROSES 


TO 


THE    DUKE     LUDOVICO     SFORZA 


ABOUT 


LEONARDO    DA    VINCI. 


Two  steps,  your  Highness — let  me  go  before, 
And  let  some  light  down  this  dark  corridor — 
Ser  Leonardo  keeps  the  only  key 
To  the  main  entrance  here  so  jealously, 
That  we  must  creep  in  at  this  secret  door 
If  we  his  great  Cenacolo  would  see. 

The  work  shows  talent — that  I  must  confess  ; 
The  heads,  too,  are  expressive,  every  one ; 
But,  with  his  idling  and  fastidiousness, 
I  fear  his  picture  never  will  be  done. 


PADRE   BANDELLI.  8 1 

I  pray  your  Highness'  pardon  for  my  zeal — 

Were  it  for  sake  of  us  poor  Frati  here, 

Despite  the  inconvenience  we  must  feel, 

Kept  out  from  our  refectory  now  a  year 

And  eight  long  months  (though  that,  of  course,  for 

us 

Whose  lives  to  mortify  the  flesh  are  vowed, 
Even  to  mention  seems  ridiculous) — 
Were  it  for  us  alone,  we  all  had  bowed ; 
But  when  we  see  your  Highness  set  at  nought, 
Who  ordered  this  great  picture  to  be  wrought, 
We  cannot  rest  content,  for  well  we  know 
What  duty  to  our  gracious  prince  we  owe. 
And  I,  the  unworthy  prior  here — (God  knows 
How  much  I  feel  my  own  unworthiness, 
But  He  hath  power  the  meanest  hand  to  bless  ; 
And  if  our  convent  prospereth  in  aught, 
Not  mine,  but  His,  the  praise,  who  all  bestows) — 
But  being  the  prior  and  the  head,  and  so 
Charged  to  your  interests  and  theirs,  I  thought 
My  duty — an  unpleasant  one,  in  sooth — 
Was  simply  to  acquaint  you  with  the  truth, 
F 


82  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  pray  your  Highness  with  your  eyes  to  see 
How  things  go  on  in  our  refectory ; 
And  then  your  Highness  only  has  to  say 
Unto  this  painter — "Sir,  no  more  delay  !" 
And  all  is  done,  for  you  he  must  obey. 

'Tis  twenty  months  since  first  upon  the  wall 
This  Leonardo  smoothed  his  plaster — then 
He  spent  two  months  ere  he  began  to  scrawl 
His  figures,  which  were  scarcely  outlined,  when 
Some  new  fit  seized  him,  and  he  spoilt  them  all. 
As  he  began  the  first  month  that  he  came, 
So  he  went  on,  month  after  month  the  same. 
At  times,  when  he  had  worked  from  morn  to  night 
For  weeks  and  weeks  on  some  apostle's  head, 
In  one  hour,  as  it  were  from  sudden  spite, 
He'd  wipe  it  out.     When  I  remonstrated, 
Saying,  "  Ser  Leonardo,  you  erase 
More  than  you  leave — that's  not  the  way  to  paint ; 
Before  you  finish  we  shall  all  be  dead ;" 
Smiling  he  turns  (he  has  a  pleasant  face, 
Though  he  would  try  the  patience  of  a  saint 


PADRE   BANDELLI.  83 

With  all  his  wilful  ways),  and  calmly  said, 
"  I  wiped  it  out,  because  it  was  not  right ; 
I  wish  it  had  been,  for  your  sake,  no  less 
Than  for  this  pious  convent's ;  and  indeed, 
The  simple  truth,  good  Padre,  to  confess, 
I've  not  the  least  objection  to  succeed  : 
But  I  must  please  myself  as  well  as  you, 
Since  I  must  answer  for  the  work  I  do." 

There  was  St  John's  head,  that  I  verily  thought 

He'd  never  finish.     Twenty  times  at  least 

I  thought  it  done,  but  still  he  wrought  and  wrought, 

Defaced,  remade,  until  at  last  he  ceased 

To  work  at  all — went  off  and  locked  the  door — 

Was  gone  three  days — then  came  and  sat  before 

The  picture  full  an  hour — then  calmly  rose 

And  scratched  out  in  a  trice  the  mouth  and  nose. 

This  is  sheer  folly,  as  it  seems  to  me, 

Or  worse  than  folly.     Does  your  Highness  pay 

A  certain  sum  to  him  for  every  day? 

If  so,  the  reason's  very  clear  to  see. 

No  ?     Then  his  brain  is  touched,  assuredly. 


84  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

At  last,  however,  as  you  see,  'tis  done — 

All  but  our  Lord's  head,  and  the  Judas  there. 

A  month  ago  he  finished  the  St  John, 

And  has  not  touched  it  since,  that  I'm  aware ; 

And  now,  he  neither  seems  to  think  or  care 

About  the  rest,  but  wanders  up  and  down 

The  cloistered  gallery  in  his  long  dark  gown, 

Picking  the  black  stones  out  to  step  upon ; 

Or  through  the  garden  paces  listlessly 

With  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground,  hour  after  hour, 

While  now  and  then  he  stoops  and  picks  a  flower, 

And  smells  it,  as  it  were,  abstractedly. 

What  he  is  doing  is  a  plague  to  me ! 

Sometimes  he  stands  before  yon  orange-pot, 

His  hands  behind  him,  just  as  if  he  saw 

Some  curious  thing  upon  its  leaves,  and  then, 

With  a  quick  glance,  as  if  a  sudden  thought 

Had  struck  his  mind,  there,  standing  on  the  spot, 

He  takes  a  little  tablet  out  to  draw, 

Then,  muttering  to  himself,  walks  on  agen. 

He  is  the  very  oddest  man  of  men  ! 


PADRE   BANDELLT.  85 

Brother  Anselmo  tells  me  that  the  book 
('Twas  left  by  chance  upon  the  bench  one  day, 
And  in  its  leaves  our  brother  got  a  look) 
Is  scribbled  over  with  all  sorts  of  things, — 
Notes  about  colours,  how  to  mix  and  lay, 
With  plans  of  flying  figures,  frames  for  wings, 
Caricatures  and  forts  and  scaffoldings, 
The  skeletons  of  men  and  beasts  and  birds, 
Engines,  and  cabalistic  signs  and  words, 
Some  written  backwards,  notes  of  music,  lyres, 
And  wheels  with  boilers  under  them  and  fires, 
A  sort  of  lute  made  of  a  horse's  skull, 
Sonnets,  and  other  idle  scraps  of  rhyme,— 
Of  things  like  this  the  book  was  scribbled  full. 
I  pray  your  Highness,  now,  is  this  the  way, 
Instead  of  painting  every  day  all  day, 
For  him  to  trifle  with  our  precious  time  ? 

Ah !  there  he  is  now — Would  your  Highness  look 
Behind  that  pillar  in  the  furthest  nook, 
That  is  his  velvet  cap  and  flowing  robe. 


86  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

See  how  he  pulls  his  beard,  as  up  and  down 

He  seems  to  count  the  stones  he  treads  upon  ! 

'Twould  irk  the  patience  of  the  good  man  Job 

To  see  him  idling  thus  his  time  away, 

As  if  our  Lord  and  Judas  both  were  done, 

And  there  was  nought  to  do  but  muse  and  stray 

Along  the  cloisters.     May  I  dare  to  pray 

Your  Highness  would  vouchsafe  one  word  to  say ; 

For  when  I  speak  he  only  answers  me, 

"  Padre  Bandelli,  go  and  say  your  mass — 

That's  what  you  understand — and  let  me  pass ; 

I  am  not  idle,  though  I  seem  to  be." 

"Not  idle  !  then  I'm  nothing  but  an  ass." 

Thus  once  I  spoke,  for  he  annoyed  me  so ; 

At  wrhich  he  answered,  smiling,  "  Oh  no,  no  ! 

Padre,  you're  very  wise,  as  all  men  know." 

I  mention  this  to  show  what  pleasant  ways 

This  painter  has,  and  not  that  I  the  praise 

Accepted  as  at  all  deserved  by  me. 

God  save  us  from  vain  pride,  and  help  us  through 

Our  daily  work  in  due  humility  ! 

Not  mine  the  praise  for  what  I  have,  for  He 


PADRE   BANDELLI.  8/ 

Hath  given  all !     So  I  began  anew  : 

"Not  idle  !  Well,  I  know  not  what  you  do  ! 

You  do  not  paint  our  picture,  that  I  see." 

To  which  he  said,  "  A  picture  is  not  wrought 

By  hands  alone,  good  Padre,  but  by  thought. 

In  the  interior  life  it  first  must  start, 

And  grow  to  form  and  colour  in  the  soul ; 

There  once  conceived  and  rounded  to  a  whole, 

The  rest  is  but  the  handicraft  of  art. 

While  I  seem  idle,  then  my  soul  creates ; 

While  I  am  painting,  then  my  hand  translates." 

Now  this,  I  say,  is  nonsense,  sheer  enough, 

Or  else  a  metaphysical  excuse 

For  idleness,  and  he  should  not  abuse 

Your  Highness  by  this  sort  of  canting  stuff. 

Look  at  him,  sauntering  there  in  his  long  dress — 

If  he  is  working,  what  is  idleness  ? 

Not  there,  your  Highness, — on  the  other  side 
Our  painter 's  walking ;  he  you  look  at  now 
Is  a  poor  brother,  pious,  void  of  pride, 
Who  there  performs  a  penitential  vow. 


GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

He,  like  Ser  Leonardo,  does  not  stroll 

Idly,  but  as  he  walks  recites  his  prayers, 

And  reads  his  breviary ;  and  he  wears 

A  haircloth  'neath  his  serge  to  save  his  soul. 

Ah  !  weak  is  man,  he  falls  in  many  snares ; 

And  we  with  prayer  must  work,  would  we  control 

Those  idle  thoughts  where  Satan  sows  his  tares. 

But,  as  I  was  observing,  there  have  passed 

Some  twenty  long  and  weary  months  since  he 

First  turned  us  out  of  our  refectory, 

And  who  knows  how  much  longer  this  may  last  ? 

Yet  if  our  painter  worked  there  steadily, 

I  could  say  nothing ;  but  the  work  stands  still, 

While  he  goes  idling  round  the  cloisters'  shade. 

Pleasant  enough  for  him — but  is  he  paid 

For  idle  dreaming  thoughts,  or  work  and  skill  ? 

I  crave  your  pardon  ;  if  I  speak  amiss, 
Your  Highness  will,  I  hope,  allowance  make 
That  I  have  spoken  for  your  Highness'  sake, 
And  not  that  us  it  inconveniences, 


PADRE   BANDELLT.  89 

Although  it  is  a  scandal  to  us  all 
To  see  this  picture  half-done  on  the  wall. 
A  word  from  your  most  gracious  lips,  I  feel, 
Would  greatly  quicken  Ser  Leonardo's  zeal, 
And  we  should  soon  see  o'er  our  daily  board, 
The  Judas  finished,  and  our  blessed  Lord. 

But  he  approaches,  in  his  hand  the  book ; 
Into  its  pages  should  your  Highness  look, 
They  would  amuse  you  by  their  strange  devices. 
Your  gracious  presence  now  he  recognises ; 
That  smile  and  bow  and  lifted  cap  I  see, 
Are  for  his  Prince  and  Patron,  not  for  me. 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI   POETISES 


TO 


THE    DUKE     IN     HIS    OWN    DEFENCE. 


PADRE  BANDELLI,  then,  complains  of  me 
Because,  forsooth,  I  have  not  drawn  a  line 
Upon  the  Saviour's  head ;  perhaps,  then,  he 
Could  without  trouble  paint  that  head  divine. 
But  think,  oh  Signor  Duca,  what  should  be 
The  pure  perfection  of  our  Saviour's  face — 
What  sorrowing  majesty,  what  noble  grace, 
At  that  dread  moment  when  He  brake  the  bread, 
And  those  submissive  words  of  pathos  said, 
"  By  one  among  you  I  shall  be  betrayed," — 
And  say  if  'tis  an  easy  task  to  find, 
Even  among  the  best  that  walk  this  earth, 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI. 

The  fitting  type  of  that  divinest  worth, 

That  has  its  image  solely  in  the  mind. 

Vainly  my  pencil  struggles  to  express 

The  sorrowing  grandeur  of  such  holiness. 

In  patient  thought,  in  ever-seeking  prayer, 

I  strive  to  shape  that  glorious  face  within, 

But  the  soul's  mirror,  dulled  and  dimmed  by  sin, 

Reflects  not  yet  the  perfect  image  there. 

Can  the  hand  do  before  the  soul  has  wrought  ? 

Is  not  our  art  the  servant  of  our  thought  ? 

And  Judas,  too,— the  basest  face  I  see 
Will  not  contain  his  utter  infamy ; 
Among  the  dregs  and  offal  of  mankind, 
Vainly  I  seek  an  utter  wretch  to  find. 
He  who  for  thirty  silver  coins  would  sell 
His  Lord,  must  be  the  Devil's  miracle. 
Padre  Bandelli  thinks  it  easy  is 
To  find  the  type  of  him  who  with  a  kiss 
Betrayed  his  Lord.     Well,  what  I  can  I'll  do ; 
And  if  it  please  his  reverence  and  you, 
For  Judas'  face  I'm  willing  to  paint  his. 


2  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Padre  Bandelli  is  a  sort  of  man, 

Joking  apart,  whose  little  round  of  thought 

Is  like  his  life,  the  measure  of  a  span. 

He  knows  and  does  the  duties  he  is  taught, — 

Prays,  preaches,  eats,  and  sleeps  in  dull  content ; 

Does  the  day's  work,  and  deems  it  excellent ; 

Says  he's  a  sinner,  but  we're  sinners  all, 

And  puts  his  own  sin  down  to  Adam's  fall. 

Christ,  at  the  last  day,  others  may  reject, — 

Poor  painters,  or  great  dukes  with  their  state  cares ; 

But  that,  with  all  his  masses,  fasts,  and  prayers, 

A  convent's  prior  should  not  be  elect, 

Padre  Bandelli  has  not  half  a  doubt — 

'Twere  a  strange  heaven,  indeed,  with  him  left  out. 

Him  the  imagination  does  not  tease 

With  hungry  cravings,  restless  impulses  ; 

Him  no  despairing  days  the  Furies  bring, 

No  torturing  doubts,  no  anxious  questioning ; 

But  day  by  day  his  ordered  time  is  spent, 

In  doing  over  the  same  things  again. 

How  should  he  know  the  artist's  inward  strain, 

His  vexing  and  fastidious  discontent  ? 


LEONARDO   DA  VINCI.  93 

Art  he  considers  as  a  sort  of  trade, 

Like  laying  bricks  :  If  one  can  lay  a  yard 

In  one  good  hour,  how  can  it  be  so  hard 

In  two  good  hours,  that  two  yards  should  be  laid  ? 

But,  Signor  Duca,  you  can  apprehend 
The  artist's  soul — how  there  is  ne'er  an  end 
Of  climbing  fancies,  longings,  and  desires, 
That  burn  within  him  like  consuming  fires ; 
How,  beaten  to  and  fro  by  joy  and  pain, 
He  grasps  at  shadows  he  can  ne'er  retain. 
How  sweet  and  fair  the  inward  vision  gleams  ! 
How  dull  and  base  the  painted  copy  seems  ! 
We  are  like  Danaus'  daughters — all  in  vain 
We  strive  to  fill  our  vases.     Human  art 
Through  myriad  leaks  lets  out  the  spirit's  part, 
And  nothing  but  the  earthy  dregs  remain. 

But  who  can  force  the  spirit  to  conceive  ? 
Its  lofty  empire  is  above  our  will : 
Trained  though  we  be,  we  only  can  fulfil 
Its  orders,  and  a  joyous  welcome  give. 


94  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Oft  when  the  music  waits,  the  room  is  decked, 
And  hope  looks  out  from  the  expectant  breast, 
Vainly  we  wait  to  greet  the  invited  guest. 
Oft  when  its  presence  least  our  souls  expect, 
Sudden,  unsummoned,  there  it  stands,  as  Eve 
Stood  before  Adam, — as  in  twilight  sky 
The  first  young  star — half  joy,  half  mystery. 

The  wilful  work  built  by  the  conscious  brain 

Is  but  the  humble  handicraft  of  art ; 

It  has  its  growth  in  toil,  its  birth  in  pain. 

The  Imagination,  silent  and  apart 

Above  the  Will,  beyond  the  conscious  eye, 

Fashions  in  joyous  ease  and  as  in  play 

Its  fine  creations, — mixing  up  alway 

The  real  and  the  ideal,  heaven  and  earth, 

Darkness  and  sunshine ;  and  then,  pushing  forth 

Sudden  upon  our  world  of  consciousness 

Its  world  of  wonder,  leaves  to  us  the  stress, 

By  patient  art,  to  copy  its  pure  grace, 

And  catch  the  perfect  features  of  its  face. 


LEONARDO  DA  VINCI.  95 

From  hand  to  spirit  must  the  human  chain 

Be  closely  linked,  and  thence  to  the  divine 

Stretch  up,  through  feeling,  its  electric  line, 

To  draw  heaven  down,  or  all  our  art  is  vain. 

For  in  its  loftiest  mood  the  soul  obeys 

A  higher  power  that  shapes  our  thoughts,  and  sways 

Their  motions,  when  by  love  and  strong  desire 

We  are  uplifted.     From  a  source  unknown 

The  power  descends — with  its  ethereal  fire 

Inflames  us — not  possessing  but  possessed 

We  do  its  bidding ;  but  we  do  not  own 

The  grace  that  in  those  happy  hours  is  given, 

More  than  its  strings  the  music  of  the  lyre — 

More  than  the  shower  the  rainbow  lent  by  heaven. 

Nature  and  man  are  only  organ-keys — 

Mere  soundless  pipes — despite  our  vaunted  skill — 

Till,  with  its  breath,  the  power  above  us  fill 

The  stops,  and  touch  us  to  its  harmonies. 

Oh  Signor  Duca,  as  the  woman  bears 
Her  child,  not  in  a  moment  nor  a  day, 


96  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

So  doth  the  soul  the  germ  that  God  doth  lay 
Within  it,  with  as  many  pains  and  cares. 
From  the  whole  being  it  absorbs  and  draws 
Its  form  and  life — on  all  we  are  and  see 
It  feeds  by  subtle  sympathetic  laws  ; 
Each  sense  it  stirs,  it  fires  each  faculty 
To  hunt  the  outer  world,  and  thence  to  seize 
Food  for  assimilation.     By  degrees 
Perfect  it  grows  at  last  in  every  part, 
And  then  is  born  into  the  world  of  art. 

In  facile  natures  fancies  quickly  grow, 
But  such  quick  fancies  have  but  little  root. 
Soon  the  narcissus  flowers  and  dies,  but  slow 
The  tree  whose  blossoms  shall  mature  to  fruit. 
Grace  is  a  moment's  happy  feeling,  Power 
A  life's  slow  growth ;  and  we  for  many  an  hour 
Must  strain  and  toil,  and  wait  and  weep,  if  we 
The  perfect  fruit  of  all  we  are  would  see. 

Therefore  I  wait.     Within  my  earnest  thought 
For  years  upon  this  picture  I  have  wrought, 


LEONARDO   DA   VINCI.  97 

Yet  still  it  is  not  ripe ;  I  dare  not  paint 
Till  all  is  ordered  and  matured  within. 
Hand-work  and  head-work  have  an  earthly  taint, 
But  when  the  soul  commands  I  shall  begin. 

On  themes  like  these  I  should  not  dare  to  dwell 
With  our  good  Prior — they  to  him  would  be 
Mere  nonsense ;  he  must  touch  and  taste  and  see  ; 
And  facts,  he  says,  are  never  mystical. 
Now,  the  fact  is,  our  worthy  Prior  says, 
The  convent  is  annoyed  by  my  delays ; 
Nor  can  he  see  why  I  for  hours  and  days 
Should  muse  and  dream  and  idle  here  around. 
I  have  not  made  a  face  he  has  not  found 
Quite  good  enough  before  it  was  half-done. 
" Don't  bother  more,"  he  says,  "let  it  alone." 
What  can  one  say  to  such  a  connoisseur  ? 
How  could  a  Prior  and  a  critic  err  ? 


But,  not  to  be  more  tedious,  I  confess 
I  am  disturbed  to  think  I  so  distress 


98  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  worthy  Prior.     Yet  'twere  wholly  vain 
To  him  an  artist's  feelings  to  explain ; 
But,  Signor  Duca,  you  will  understand, 
And  so  I  treat  on  higher  themes  with  you. 
The  work  you  order  I  shall  strive  to  do 
With  all  my  soul,  not  merely  with  my  hand. 


RADICOFANI. 


"  Quivi  era  1'Aretin  che  dalle  braccia 
Fiere  di  Ghin  di  Tacco  ebbe  la  morte.' 


I. 

THIS  is  a  barren,  desolate  scene, 
Grim  and  grey,  with  scarce  a  tree, 
Gashed  with  many  a  wild  ravine 
Far  away  as  the  eye  can  see ; 
Ne'er  a  home  for  miles  to  be  found, 
Save  where  huddled  on  some  grim  peak 
A  village  clinging  in  fear  looks  round 
Over  the  country  vast  and  bleak, 
As  if  it  had  fled  from  the  lower  ground, 
Refuge  from  horrors  there  to  seek. 


100  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

II. 

Over  the  spare  and  furzy  soil 
With  never  a  waving  grain-field  sowed, 
Raggedly  winds  with  weary  toil 
The  shining  band  of  dusty  road,— 
Down  through  the  river's  rocky  bed, 
That  is  white  and  dry  with  summer's  drought. 
Or  climbing  some  sandy  hillock's  head, 
Over  and  under,  in  and  out, 
Like  a  struggling  thing  by  madness  led, 
That  wanders  along  in  fear  and  doubt 


III. 

What  are  those  spots  on  yon  sandy  slope 
Where  the  green  is  frayed  and  tattered  with  grey  ? 
Are  they  only  rocks — or  sheep  that  crop 
The  meagre  pasture  ? — one  scarce  can  say. 
This  seems  not  a  place  for  flowers — but  behold  ! 
How  the  lupine  spreads  its  pink  around, 
And  the  clustered  ginestra  squanders  its  gold 
As  if  it  loved  this  barren  ground ; 


RADICOFANI.  IOI 

And  surely  that  bird  is  over-bold 

That  dares  to  sing  o'er  that  grave-like  mound. 

IV. 

It  is  dead  and  still  in  the  middle  noon ; 

The  sand-beds  shine  with  a  blending  light, 

The  cicali  dizzen  the  air  with  their  tune, 

And  the  sunshine  seems  like  a  curse  to  smite ; 

The  mountains  around  their  shoulders  bare 

Gather  a  thin  and  shadowy  veil, 

And  shrink  from  the  fierce  and  scorching  glare — 

And  close  to  the  grass  so  withered  and  pale 

Hovering  quivers  the  glassy  air, 

And  the  lizards  pant  in  their  emerald  mail. 

v. 

Think  of  this  place  in  the  dreary  gloom 
Of  an  autumn  twilight,  when  the  sun 
Hiding  in  banks  of  clouds  goes  down, 
And  silence  and  shadow  are  coming  on ; — 
White  mists  crawl — one  lurid  light 
Glares  from  the  west  through  a  broken  cloud — 


IO2  GRAFFITI  D'lTALIA. 

Rack  hurries  above — the  dubious  night 
Is  creeping  along  with  its  spectral  crowd ; 
Would  it,  I  ask,  be  a  startling  sight 
To  meet  a  ghost  here  than  in  a  shroud? 

VI. 

One  of  the  thousand  murdered  men 

Who  have  stained  the  blasted  soil  with  blood  ? 

Does  the  lupine  get  its  colour  then 

From  some  victim  pashed  to  death  in  the  mud  ? 

Has  the  yellow  ginestra  the  hue  of  the  gold 

From  the  traveller  here  in  terror  torn  ? 

Was  yon  bird  but  a  sprite,  singing  so  bold, 

That  in  life  a  maiden's  form  had  worn, 

And  at  night  steals  back  in  its  shape  of  old 

To  haunt  the  darkness  pale  and  forlorn  ? 

VII. 

Look  at  that  castle  whose  ruins  crown 
The  rocky  crest  of  yonder  height, 
Still  frowning  over  the  squalid  town, 
That  cowers  beneath  as  if  in  affright. 


RADICOFANI.  IO3 

From  his  eyrie  there  to  glut  his  beak 
The  robber  swooped  to  his  shuddering  prey, 
And  the  ghosts  of  the  past  still  haunt  the  peak 
Though  robber  and  baron  have  passed  away. 
And,  hark  !  was  that  the  owl's  long  shriek, 
Or  a  ghost's  that  flits  through  the  ruins  grey  ? 

VIII. 

'Tis  blood  and  gold  wherever  I  gaze, 

And  tangled  brambles,  stiff  and  grey,— 

A  scowling,  ugly,  terrified  place, 

A  spot  for  murder  and  deadly  fray. 

On  such  a  barren,  desolate  heath, 

When  shadows  were  deepening  all  around, 

The  sisters  weird  before  Macbeth 

Rising,  hovered  along  the  ground, 

And  echoed  his  inward  thought  of  death, 

And  vanished  again  behind  a  mound. 

IX. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  filled  my  breast, 
Wandering  here  one  lonely  night, 


IO4  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

When  sudden  behind  a  rock's  dark  crest 

Uprose  a  shape  of  portentous  height. 

A  coal-black  plume  from  his  helmet  flowed, 

His  eyes  in  the  vizor's  shadow  gleamed, 

And  here  and  there  a  steel-flash  showed 

An  outline  vague  and  dim  that  seemed 

To  hover  along  the  dusky  road 

Like  a  thing  that  is  neither  real  nor  dreamed. 


x. 

In  his  hand  he  bore  a  mighty  spear, 
Tall  as  a  pine  and  stained  with  blood. 
Transfixed  in  horror  and  ghastly  fear, 
With  knocking  knees  I  before  him  stood. 
"Who  and  what  art  thou?"  I  cried, 
"  Monstrous  figure,  of  noiseless  tread, 
That  out  of  the  darkness  thus  dost  stride  ?  " 
The  black  plume  shook  on  the  lofty  head — 
A  hollow  voice  from  the  helm  replied — 
Hollow  and  vague  like  the  voice  of  the  dead. 


RADICOFANI.  IO5 

XL 

"  Ghino  di  Tacco  was  my  name  ! 

I  come  to  answer  your  sneering  thought ! 

Start  not !     Listen  before  you  blame  ! 

The  fool  condemns  what  he  knoweth  not. 

Call  me  robber  or  call  me  knight, 

But  listen  to  me  while  my  tale  I  tell. 

I  struck,  the  oppressed  and  weak  to  right : 

My  blows  on  the  strong  and  cruel  fell. 

For  vengeance  I  struck  !     If  my  hand  was  light 

Ask  Benincasa — down  in  hell. 


XII. 

"  On  the  slopes  of  Arbia's  banks  arose 
The  little  castle  that  gave  me  birth, 
When  my  father's  strongest,  bitterest  foes- 
The  Santafiori — cursed  the  earth. 
Him  they  hated,  for  he  was  brave ; 
Him  they  hunted,  for  he  was  good. 
The  bandit  was  strong  the  weak  to  save, 
The  blows  of  his  heavy  sword  were  rude ; 


io6  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

But  treason  dug  for  him  his  grave, 
And  the  Santafiori  bought  his  blood. 

XIII. 

"  Ah  that  wild  and  terrible  night ! " 
Here  the  spectre  his  great  spear  raised  ; 
And  his  coal-like  eyes,  with  angry  light, 
Like  a  furnace  roused  by  the  blast,  out  blazed. 
"  Screams  of  women,  and  groans  and  sighs, 
Clashing  of  steel,  a  swirl  of  flame, 
Mixed  with  a  tumult  of  savage  cries, 
Woke  me.     I  shouted  my  father's  name  : 
When  sudden,  before  my  terrified  eyes, 
Through  the  smoke  a  pale  shape  swiftly  came. 

XIV. 

"  'Twas  my  mother.     She  seized  me  in  her  arms, 
And  forth  she  rushed  in  the  stormy  night 
Her  strained  eyes  glared  so  in  wild  alarm, 
They  scared  me.     I  uttered  a  shriek  of  fright. 
1  Silence,  my  child,  for  your  life  ! '  she  said. 
Then  swift  we  stole  down  the  hillside  bare, 


RADICOFANI.  IO/ 

And  up  again  through  the  dark  wood  fled  • 
While  the  sky  was  lit  by  a  lurid  glare, 
And  the  great  trees,  roaring  overhead, 
Hurtled  and  heaved  in  the  bleak  night  air. 

xv. 

"  To  yonder  castle  that  frowns  above, 

By  many  a  devious  path  we  went ; 

And  nurtured  there  with  pious  love 

My  growing  days  as  a  boy  were  spent. 

Night  by  night,  when  tolled  for  the  dead 

The  great  tower-bell,  at  its  solemn  call, 

My  mother,  in  black,  with  a  mournful  tread, 

And  with  her  a  lady,  dark  and  tall, 

My  childish  fearful  footsteps  led 

To  a  shrine  built  into  the  tower's  thick  wall. 

XVI. 

"  Before  a  crucifix  there  a  light 
Burnt  dim  and  sad  in  the  gloomy  shade. 
And  oft,  in  the  solemn  silent  night, 
Weeping,  they  kneeled  with  me  and  prayed. 


io8  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

One  night  the  lady  came  alone. 

'  Where  is  my  mother  ? '  in  fear,  I  cried. 

Then,  with  a  kiss  and  a  broken  tone, 

'  Poor  child  ! '  the  lady  in  black  replied. 

And  I  knew  by  her  voice  my  mother  was  gone, 

And  my  heart  grew  still  as  it  had  died. 

XVII. 

"  Years  went  on.     My  wondering  heart 

Strove  through  the  shadowy  veil  to  pierce. 

I  wandered  many  an  hour  apart, 

And  my  boyish  spirit  grew  dark  and  fierce. 

'  Whose,'  I  cried,  '  is  that  heavy  spear, 

And  that  blood-stained  shirt  against  the  wall  ? ' 

1  Your  father's,  she  said.'     '  Why  hang  they  there  ? ' 

'  Ask  me  not  now — 'twould  your  heart  appal ! 

When  you  are  able  that  spear  to  bear, 

Vengeance  is  yours — you  shall  then  know  all.' 

XVIII. 

"  '  Vengeance  is  yours  ; ' — day  after  day 
These  words  in  secret  I  brooded  o'er. 


RADICOFANI.  I OQ 

They  cast  their  shade  on  my  boyish  play, 
Through  my  dreams  a  painful  path  they  wore. 
I  longed  for  manhood.     Within  me  grew 
A  craving  desire  the  key  to  gain 
To  this  terrible  mystery.     Muscle  and  thew 
I  strove  to  strengthen  with  might  and  main ; 
For  my  father's  spear  was  heavy,  I  knew, 
And  my  boyish  attempts  to  wield  it  vain. 


XIX. 

"  Panting,  I  hacked  at  the  mountain  oak, 

Till  it  fell  with  a  heavy  crash  and  groan  ; 

The  gnashing  wild-boar  felt  my  stroke — 

By  his  heels  I  dragged  him  home  alone ; 

Daily  at  tilt  and  sword  I  tried 

My  growing  strength.     I  laughed  at  fear. 

Danger  to  me  was  as  a  bride, 

The  sound  of  whose  voice  I  leaped  to  hear. 

Till  at  last,  with  a  thrill  of  manhood's  pride, 

I  brandished  aloft  my  father's  spear. 


no  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

XX. 

"  Fiercely  I  cried,  as  its  weight  I  shook, 
'  Read  me  the  riddle — these  arms  are  strong- 
Longer  delay  I  will  not  brook ; 
This  heart  is  bold — it  has  waited  long.' 
That  night  I  started  in  wild  surprise ; 
For  a  voice  cried  out,  in  my  dreaming  ear, 
'  Son  of  a  murdered  man,  arise  ! 
The  hour  is  come  ! '     ( Behold  me  here  ! ' 
I  answered ; — and  there,  before  my  eyes, 
Was  the  form  of  the  lady  standing  near. 


XXI. 

"  Sternly  she  took  me  by  the  hand, 

And  straight  to  the  chapel  my  steps  she  led. 

I  saw  the  spear  by  the  altar  stand ; 

The  bloody  shirt  was  across  it  spread. 

The  open  Evangel  before  me  stood. 

'  There,'  as  she  grasped  my  arm,  she  cried, 

'  Are  the  last  red  drops  of  your  father's  blood, 

When  under  the  headsman's  axe  he  died. 


RADICOFANI.  1 1 1 

For  know  that  he  fell  not  in  battle  feud, 
As  a  soldier  falls,  at  his  comrade's  side. 

XXII. 

"  '  Vainly  he  fought  in  that  fearful  fray 
When  his  castle  was  stormed ;  but  a  faithful  few 
Bore  him,  senseless  and  wounded,  away, — 
And  a  bandit's  life  thenceforth  he  knew. 
From  lair  to  lair,  o'er  the  mountains  steep, 
Like  a  wounded  lion,  they  tracked  his  way. 
His  sword  drank  blood  ; — but  in  his  sleep 
The  Santafiori  seized  their  prey. 
They  dared  not  kill ;  but  their  plot  was  deep,— 
And  a  base  judge  gave  him  to  death  for  pay. 

XXIII. 

"  '  Ere  on  the  scaffold  fell  his  head, 

He  called  a  vassal,  and  said,  "  This  spear, 

And  the  shirt  my  murdered  blood  makes  red, 

Are  the  heritage  of  Ghino  dear. 

When  he  can  bear  and  wield  it  well, 

Tell  him  the  tale  of  his  father's  death ; 


112  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

How  he  shall  use  it  his  heart  will  tell. 
I  bless  him  now  with  my  latest  breath. 

Say  to  his  mother "     His  voice  here  fell— 

Your  mother  is  sleeping  this  stone  beneath. 

XXIV. 

"  *  Struck,  as  by  death,  when  she  heard  his  fate 

She  fell,  for  her  strength  with  her  hope  had  fled. 

On  her  grave  you  stand.     I,  forced  to  wait, 

Tell  you  for  her  the  words  of  the  dead. 

See  !  the  Evangel  is  under  your  hand  ! 

Swear  to  revenge  your  father's  fame  ! 

Burn  on  your  heart,  as  with  a  brand, 

Benincasa's  accursed  name  ! 

Seek  him  in  Rome — where  the  plot  was  planned 

That  doomed  your  father  to  death  and  shame  ! 

xxv. 

"  '  Bind  that  bloody  shirt  to  your  heart  ! 
Lift  the  spear  !     The  bell  strikes  one — 
The  gates  are  open — at  once  depart, 
And  never  return  till  your  duty 's  done. 


RADICOFANL  1 1  3 

This  is  no  longer  a  home  for  you — 
You  look  like  your  father  standing  there, — 
If  in  your  veins  his  blood  runs  true 
You  know  what  there  is  to  do  and  dare. 
Go  !  if  this  story  thrill  you  through, 
Swear  to  revenge  your  father.     Swear  ! 

XXVI. 

"  '  Go  !    When  that  villain's  head  you  bring, 

Bridge  shall  fall,  and  portcullis  rise, 

And  the  bells  of  Radicofani  ring; 

But  never  till  then  dare  meet  these  eyes.' 

The  light  burned  dim  as  thus  she  spoke ; 

I  grasped  the  spear  with  a  thrill  of  rage ; 

I  struck  my  clenched  hand  on  the  book 

And  swore  my  oath  on  the  holy  page, 

Never  again  on  the  place  to  look 

Till  his  blood  my  vengeance  should  assuage. 

XXVII. 

"  The  grinding  bridge  writh  a  clang  went  down, 
The  tempest  roared — the  lightning  flashed — 
H 


ii4  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  wind  through  the  great  gate  sucked  such  a  groan 
As  my  horse's  hoofs  on  its  pavement  dashed. 
Four  hundred  horsemen  were  at  my  side — 
One  word,  and  their  swift  swords  left  the  sheath, 
And  crossed  with  a  clash.     Vengeance  !  they  cried — 
To  Rome  !     Then  over  the  sandy  heath 
Closely  we  galloped,  a  long  fierce  ride 
To  Rome,  with  the  settled  purpose  of  death. 


XXVIII. 

"  Alone  at  the  Campidoglio's  base 
I  stood.     The  hated  shape  was  there  ; 
The  Senator's  foul  and  ugly  face, 
That  brought  my  father  to  his  despair ; 
The  cursed,  livid,  hideous  head, 
With  flabby  mouth,  and  streamy  eyes — 
He  heard  in  the  hall  my  armed  tread. 
He  looked  with  a  leer  of  cold  surprise, 
And  '  What  do  you  seek  of  me  ? '  he  said. 
'  A  debt ! '  I  answered,  '  a  bloody  prize  ! ' 


RADICOFANI. 
XXIX. 

"  He  started  and  trembled  in  ghastly  fright, 
For  a  terrible  memory  on  him  smote, — 
My  father  I  seemed  to  his  bleary  sight. 
'Villain/  I  said,  as  I  grasped  his  throat, 
'  Go  down  to  hell  in  your  despair  ! ' 
A  strangled  gasp  from  his  lips  there  came, 
'  Save  me  !  oh  God  ! '— <  Go  !  Judas,  bear 
To  God  your  deeds  of  crime  and  shame  ! 
Turrino  di  Tacco  is  waiting  there  ! 
The  mercy  you  meted  to  him — reclaim  ! ' 


XXX. 


"  I  plunged  my  dagger  into  his  heart,— 

Plis  head  from  his  bleeding  trunk  I  hewed, 

His  vassals  terrified  stood  apart 

As  I  strode  through  the  gathering  multitude, 

I  stuck  that  head  on  my  father's  spear. 
'  Room  ! '  I  cried,  as  my  sword  I  drew  ; 
'  He  meets  the  fate  of  this  villain  here 
Who  hinders  my  path  ! '     They  saw  and  knew 


ii6  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Death  in  my  eyes.     They  left  me  clear 
My  path,  and  I  strode  in  safety  through. 

XXXI. 

"  Swift  to  the  castle's  bridge  I  sped. 

'  Down  with  the  drawbridge,  men  of  mine  ! ' 

High  up  I  lifted  the  ghastly  head. 

1  Down  with  the  bridge  !     You  know  the  sign.' 

Clang  went  the  chains  with  a  clattering  din. 

The  castle's  lady  I  found  in  prayer 

At  the  lonely  shrine  as  I  entered  in. 

She  lifted  her  eyes.     '  You,  Ghino  !  where 

Is  the  traitor's  head  ?  '     'He  died  in  his  sin  ; ' 

And  I  flung  the  head  on  the  pavement  there. 

XXXII. 

"  Then  through  Siena  rose  a  cry, 

But  the  Santafiori  strove  in  vain  ; 

From  the  eyrie  of  Radicofani 

I  swooped  and  swept  them  from  hill  and  plain, 

Their  castles  I  burned,  their  lands  laid  waste, 


RADICOFANI.  117 

Refuge  they  sought  in  the  city's  wall, 

The  cup  they  had  proffered  was  the  irs  to  taste  ; 

I  saw  my  foes  before  me  fall, 

But  a  price  on  my  bandit  head  was  placed. 

XXXIII. 

"  Yet  never,  a  bandit  though  I  was, 
Was  my  sword  disgraced  by  useless  crime ; 
With  the  weak  and  poor  I  made  my  cause, 
And  my  deeds  were  sung  in  many  a  rhyme. 
At  my  table  the  beggar  found  a  feast, 
Though  the  cruel  baron  felt  my  sword  ; 
I  sheared  the  ambitious  worldly  priest, 
But  the  ruined  peasant  his  farm  restored ; 
Cursed  by  the  proud— by  the  humble  blessed— 
I  broke  no  promise  in  act  or  word. 

xxxiv. 

"  There  rots  my  castle  on  yonder  height ! — 
Mortal  !  this  promise  of  you  I  claim,  . 
Tell  the  story  I  tell  to-night 
Whenever  you  mention  Di  Tacco's  name." 


T18  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

11 1  promise,"  I  cried.     The  figure  bowed 
His  lofty  stature  and  clinched  his  spear, 
And  slow,  like  the  mist  of  a  fading  cloud, 
In  the  shadow  I  watched  it  disappear. 
And  my  heart  in  my  bosom  beat  aloud 
With  a  feeling  of  mystery,  doubt,  and  fear. 


IN   THE  ANTECHAMBER 


OF 


MONSIGNORE    DEL    FIOCCO. 


OUR  master  will  be  Cardinal  ere  long — 

Is  he  not  made  for  one  ? — so  smooth  and  plump, 

With  those  broad  jaws,  those  half-shut  peeping  eyes, 

Those  ankle-heavy  legs  and  knotty  feet, 

Which  only  need  red  stockings.     Even  now 

He  totters  round  with  the  true  Cardinal's  gait 

Upon  his  tender  toes,  while  you  behind 

Demurely  follow,  scarce  an  ear-shot  off, 

The  pious  footsteps  of  the  holy  man. 

How  many  years  have  you  thus  stalked  along 

Behind  that  broad-brimmed,  purple-tasselled  hat, 


I2O  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

In  your  stiff  lace  and  livery,  trained  to  pause 
Whene'er  he  pauses,  turning  half  to  fix 
His  Fifthly  on  his  fingers  to  some  dull 
Cringing  Abbate  shuffling  at  his  side  ? 
Then,  when  that  point  is  drilled  into  his  brain 
(Proving  the  blessedness  of  poverty, 
Or  how  the  devil  has  no  cursed  wiles 
To  lure  the  world  to  hell  like  liberty — 
The  only  one  great  good  being  obedience), 
Back  go  the  hands  beneath  the  creased  black  silk 
That  streams  behind,  and  on  you  march  again ; 
While  the  gilt  carriage  lumbers  in  the  rear, 
And  the  black  stallions  nod  their  tufted  crests. 

Yours  is  a  noble  station,  clinging  there 

Behind  it  as  you  clatter  through  the  town, 

Your  white  calves  shaking  with  the  pavement's  jar, 

The  mark  and  sneer  of  half  the  world  you  meet. 

Ah,  well !  'tis  wretched  business  yours  and  mine  ; 

I  know  not  which  is  worst — but  then  it  pays ; 

The  cards  are  dirty,  but  what  matters  dirt 

To  those  who  win  ?     Though  now  the  stakes  are  small, 


MONSIGNORE   DEL  FIOCCO.  121 

We'll  hold  the  court-cards  when  the  suit  is  red ; — 
And  so  it  will  be  soon ;  why,  even  now 
I  seem  to  see  red  stockings  on  his  legs ; — 
And  yesterday  I  said,  "Your  Eminence," 
As  if  I  thought  he  now  was  Cardinal — 
"Your  Eminence,"  indeed  !     At  that  he  smiled 
That  oily  smile  of  his,  and  rubbed  his  hands — 
Those  thick  fat  hands,  on  which  his  emerald  ring 
Flashes  ('tis  worth  at  least  a  thousand  crowns) — 
And  said,  "  Good  Giacomo,  not  '  Eminence,' 
I'm  but  a  Monsignor,  and  that's  too  much 
For  my  deserts."     Then  I,  "Your  'Reverence' 
Ought  to  be  *  Eminence,'  and  will  be  soon  ; 
The  tassel's  almost  old  upon  your  hat." 
" Sei  matto,  Giacomo"  he  said,  and  smiled. 
You  know  those  smiles,  that  glitter  falsely  o'er 
His  smooth  broad  cheeks,  as  if  he  asked  of  you, 
"Am  I  not  kind  and  good?"  and  all  the  while 
Your  soul  protests,  and  calls  out  "  Knave  and  cheat." 
But,  then,  how  can  one  call  him  by  such  names, 
When,  even  with  that  smile  upon  his  face, 
He  slips  a  scudo  in  one's  hand  and  says, 


122  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

"  Go,  Giacomo,  and  drink  my  health  with  this  "  ? 
What  can  one  do  but  bow  and  try  to  blush  ? 
"  Oh — Eminenza — thanks — you  are  too  good." 

Dear  man  !  sweet  man  !  in  all  those  troublous  times 

What  zeal  was  his  ! — how  earnestly  he  worked  ! 

Who  can  forget  his  pure  self-sacrifice, 

His  virtuous  deeds,  above  this  world's  reward — 

Done  for  pure  Christian  duty — done,  of  course, 

For  Holy  Church — all  was  for  Holy  Church — 

(Without  a  notion  of  this  world's  reward) — 

All  for  the  good  of  souls  and  Holy  Church — 

(Or a  pro  nobis,  and  that  sort  of  thing) — 

All  to  bring  sinners  back  again  to  God, 

And  from  the  harvest  root  the  devil's  tares — 

In  omnia  scecula — amen — amen. 

We  don't  forget — well !  you  know  whom  I  mean 

No  need  to  mention  names,  though  no  one's  nigh ; 

We  don't  forget  him  whose  anointed  hands 

Were  flayed  by  order  of  his  Reverence, 

Ere  with  his  bleeding  palms  they  led  him  down 

Into  the  court-yard,  and  we,  peeping  through 


MONSIGNORE  DEL  FIOCCO.  123 

The  half-closed  blind,  saw  him  throw  up  his  hands 
And  forward  fall  upon  his  face,  and  writhe, 
When  the  sharp  volley  rang  against  the  walls. 

Those  oily  fingers  wrote  that  sentence  down ! 

That  thick  voice,  with  a  hypocritic  tone, 

While  both  his  palms  were  raised,  decreed  that  doom. 

Who  could  help  weeping  when  that  pious  man, 

Professing  horror  at  his  victim's  crime, 

And  bidding  him  confess  and  pray  to  God, 

And  saying,  "God  would  pardon  him,  perhaps, 

As  he  himself  would,  if  the  power  were  his, 

But,  being  the  instrument  of  Church  and  State, 

No  choice  was  given,"  with  his  priestly  foot 

Pushed,  you  know  whom,  into  a  felon's  grave  ? 

That  bloody  stain  is  still  upon  the  walls, 

Of  the  same  colour  as  the  scarlet  hat 

Our  master  soon  will  wear ;  and,  after  all, 

Who  more  deserves  it  ?     If  he  stained  his  soul, 

Is  not  the  labourer  worthy  of  his  hire  ? 

He  shall  be  raised  who  doth  abase  himself ! 

The  good  and  faithful  servant  shall  be  made 


124  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

The  ruler  over  many  !     Ah  !  my  friend, 
He  nothing  lost  by  all  those  deeds  of  his. 
He  erred  in  zeal,  but  zeal  is  not  a  vice — 
'Twas  all  for  Holy  Church.     His  secret  life, 
Perhaps,  was  not  quite  perfect !     Who  of  you 
Is  without  sin  let  him  first  cast  a  stone ; — 
No  one,  you  see ;  so  let  us  think  no  more 
Of  that     Does  any  Duchess  smile  the  less 
At  all  his  compliments  and  unctuous  words 
As,  leaning  o'er  her  chair,  his  downcast  eyes 
He  fixes  somewhat  lower  than  her  lips, — 
Upon  the  jewels  on  her  neck,  perchance, 
He  is  so  modest, — and  with  undertone 
Whispers,  and,  deprecating,  lifts  his  hands, 
While  with  her  fan  she  covers  half  her  face  ? 
He  knows  as  well  as  any  man  that  lives 
How  far  to  venture ; — covers  his  foul  jokes 
With  honeyed  words,  so  ladies  swallow  them  ;- 
Treads  on  the  edge  of  scandal — not  a  chance 
He  will  fall  in ;  knows  all  the  secret  shoals 
Of  innuendo ; — in  pure  earnestness 
(Oh,  nothing  more)  he  seizes  their  soft  hands 


MONSIGNORE  DEL  FIOCCO.  125 

And  holds  them — presses  them,  as  to  enforce 

His  argument ; — for  this,  our  Monsignor, 

Lifted  above  temptation,  with,  of  course, 

No  carnal  thought,  may  do  before  the  world — 

Because  it  must  be  done  through  innocence. 

Fie  on  his  foul  mouth  who  should  hint  'twas  wrong  ! 

Who'd  be  more  shock'd  than  he,  the  pious  man  ? 

He  would  go  home  and  pray  for  that  lost  soul ! 


And  yet,  how  can  a  woman  pure  in  heart, 
Without  disgust,  accept  his  compliments, 
And  let  him  feed  on  her  his  gloating  eyes  ? 
Of  course,  it's  just  because  she's  innocent. 
Yes  !     I  am  lean  and  dry,  a  servitor, 
Not  fat  and  oily  like  our  Monsignor, 
And  so  I  can't  endure  his  nauseous  ways ; — 
All  right,  of  course  !     But  yet  I  sometimes  think, 
Did  San  Pietro  talk  to  Martha  thus, 
And  every  night,  wearing  his  fisherman's  ring, 
Show  his  silk-stocking'd  legs  in  soft  saloons, 
And  fish  for  women  with  a  net  like  this  ? 


126  GRAFFITI  D'lTALIA. 

Those  soft  fat  hands — those  sweet  anointed  hands — 
Those  hands  that  wear  the  glittering  emerald  ring — 
Those  hands  whose  palms  are  pressed  so  oft  in  prayer- 
Those  hands  that  fondle  high-born  ladies'  hands — 
Those  hands  that  give  their  blessing  to  the  poor — 
Those  hateful,  hideous  hands  are  red  with  blood  ! 
Think  !  Principessa,  when  you  kiss  those  hands — 
Think  !  Novice,  when  those  hands  upon  your  head 
Are  laid  in  consecration — think  of  this  ! 

Stop,  Master  Giacomo  !  don't  get  too  warm  ! 
When  Monsignore  gave  you  yesterday, 
With  those  same  hateful,  hideous,  bloody  hands, 
Your  scudo,  did  you  take  it,  sir,  or  not  ? 
Yes  !  I  confess  !  the  world  will  be  the  world  ! 
One  must  not  ask  too  much  of  mortal  man, 
Nor  mortal  woman  neither,  Giacomo  ! 
But  yet  we  cannot  always  keep  a  curb 
Upon  our  feelings,  school  them  as  we  will ; 
And  I,  who  bow  and  cringe  and  smile  all  day, 
Detest  at  times  my  very  self,  and  grow 
So  restive  'neath  my  rank  hypocrisy, 


MONSIGNORE  DEL  FIOCCO.  I2/ 

I  must  break  loose  and  fling  out  like  a  horse 
In  useless  kicks,  or  else  I  should  go  mad. 
God  knows  I  hate  this  man,  and  so  at  times, 
Rather  than  take  him  by  the  throat,  I  come 
And  pour  my  passion  out  in  idle  words ; 
They  ease  me.     You're  my  friend ;  but  if  I  thought 
A  word  of  this  would  reach  his  ears ;  but,  no  ! 
We  know  each  other  both  too  well  for  that. 

One  or  two  questions  I  should  like  to  ask, 

If  Monsignor  would  only  answer  them, 

As  this — what  Sora  Lisa  says  to  him 

At  her  confession,  once  a-week  at  least 

(For  Monsignor,  having  her  soul  in  charge, 

When  she  don't  come  to  him,  must  go  to  her). 

She  used  to  be  so  poor,  but  times  are  changed, 

And  Sora  Lisa  keeps  her  carriage  now  j 

And  those  old  gowns,  by  some  "  Hey,  presto,  change," 

Have  turned  to  rustling  silks ;  and  at  her  ears 

Diamonds  and  rubies  dangle,  which  she  shows, 

When  she's  the  mind,  in  her  own  opera  box. 

Well !  well !  that  office  our  good  Monsignor 


128  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Gave  her  poor  husband  from  pure  love  of  him 

May  pay  for  these ;  and  if  it  don't,  why,  then, 

It  don't — what  business  is  it  of  ours  ? 

And  then,  who  knows,  some  uncle  may  have  died 

(Uncles  are  always  dying  for  such  folks) 

And  made  her  rich ; — why  should  we  peep  and  pry  ? 

Her  soul  is  safe  at  least  with  Monsignor. 

And  this  reminds  me — did  you  ever  know 

Nina,  that  tall,  majestic,  fierce-eyed  girl, 

With  blue-black  hair,  which,  when  she  loosed  it,  shook 

Its  crimpled  darkness  almost  to  the  floor? — 

She  that  was  friend  to  Monsignor  while  yet 

He  was  a  humble  Abbe' — born  indeed 

In  the  same  town  and  came  to  live  in  Rome  ? 

Not  know  her  ?     She,  I  mean,  who  disappeared 

Some  ten  years  back,  and  God  knows  how  or  why  ? 

Well,  Nina, — are  you  sure  there's  no  one  near  ? — 

Nina — 

Per  Dio  !  how  his  stinging  bell 
Startled  my  blood,  as  if  the  Monsignor 
Cried  out,  "  You,  Giacomo ;  what,  there  again 


MONSIGNORE   DEL  FIOCCO.  129 

At  your  old  trick  of  talking  ?     Hold  your  tongue  ! " 
And  so  I  will,  per  Bacco,  so  I  will ; — 
Who  tells  no  secrets  breaks  no  confidence. 
Nature,  as  Monsignor  has  often  said, 
Gave  us  two  eyes,  two  ears,  and  but  one  tongue, 
As  if  to  say,  "Tell  half  you  see  and  hear;" 
And  I'm  an  ass  to  let  my  tongue  run  on, 
After  such  lessons.     There  he  rings  again  ! 
Vengo — per  Dio — Vengo  subito. 


A    CONTEMPORARY    CRITICISM: 

IN   WHICH    FEDERIGO   DI   MONTAFELTRO,   DUKE   OF   URBINO, 
GIVES   HIS   VIEWS   OF   RAFFAELLE. 


{Dedicated  to  H.  G.  W.} 


OH  !  I  admit  his  talent,— there's  no  lack 
Of  facile  talent ;  what  in  him  I  blame 
Is  that  he  travels  in  his  master's  track 
With  such  a  slavish,  imitative  aim. 
'Tis  Perugino  all,  from  head  to  foot : 
Angels  the  same,  with  their  affected  grace, 
Playing  the  lyre  with  sideway  upturned  face ; 
Round-faced,  small-eyed  Madonnas, — all  the  same. 
Landscapes  mere  copies  ;  subjects,  branch  and  root, 
His  master's  subjects, — not  an  arch  or  shaft 


A   CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM.  131 

Of  all  his  architecture,  but  you  see 
That  too  is  copied.     Every  little  shoot 
Upon  his  genius  is  his  master's  graft. 
And  yet,  through  all,  there's  clear  ability. 
Why  will  he  never  grow  his  special  fruit  ? 

Lately  he's  striven  to  effect  a  change, 

But  still  an  imitator  he  must  go, 

From  peaceful  Perugino's  timid  range 

To  the  extravagance  of  Angel o, 

Behind  them  both,  of  course,  in  both  their  ways ; 

For,  as  uncompromising  Michael  says, 

"  Who  follows  after,  cannot  go  before." 

Then  why,  too,  will  he  try  so  many  things  ? 
Instead  of  sticking  to  one  single  art, 
He  must  be  studying  music,  twanging  strings, 
And  writing  sonnets,  with  their  "  heart  and  dart/' 
Lately,  he's  setting  up  for  architect, 
And  planning  palaces ;  and,  as  I  learn, 
Has  made  a  statue, — every  art  in  turn,— 
Like  Leonardo  (and  you  recollect, 


52  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

How  with  his  many  arts  even  he  was  wrecked) ; 
But  if  he  failed,  what  can  this  youth  expect  ? 

A  touch  of  this  same  vice  his  father  had  : 

He  laid  aside  the  brush  to  use  the  pen ; 

And  though  he  praised  my  deeds, — and  I,  of  men, 

Should  be  the  last  to  call  the  praising  bad, 

Though  over-praised, — yet,  be  the  truth  confest, 

No  man  in  more  than  one  art  can  be  best. 

'Twas  but  the  other  day  I  spoke  to  him, 

With  earnest  hope  to  make  him  change  his  course ; 

I  told  him  he  would  dissipate  his  force 

By  following  the  lead  of  every  whim, 

And  (for  I  like  the  youth,  and  recognise 

In  all  his  efforts  good  abilities) 

I  urged  upon  him  not  to  skip  and  skim 

In  many  arts,  but  give  himself  to  one, 

For  life  was  quite  too  short  for  everything, 

And  doing  all  things,  nothing  gets  well  done. 

He  thanked  me  for  my  kindness,  disagreed 


A   CONTEMPORARY   CRITICISM.  133 

With  my  conclusions  in  a  modest  way 
(He's  modest,  that  'tis  only  just  to  say) ; 
But  in  a  letter  that  he  sends  to-day 
Here  is  his  answer.     Listen,  while  I  read. 

"  Most  noble  sir," — and  so  on,  and  so  on, — 

"A  thousand   thanks,"  —  hem  —  hem, —  "in   one    so 

high," 

"Learned  in  art," — et  cetera, — "I  shall  try" — 
Oh  !  that's  about  his  picture, — "critic's  eye;" 
"  Patron," — pho,  pho — where  has  the  passage  gone  ? 
Ah  !  here  we  come  to  it  at  last : — "You  thought," 
He  says,  "  that  in  too  many  arts  I  wrought ; 
And  you  advised  me  to  stick  close  to  one. 
Thanks  for  your  gracious  counsel,  all  too  kind  ; 
And  answering,  if  I  chance  to  speak  my  mind 
Too  boldly,  pardon.     Yet  it  seems  to  me 
All  arts  are  one — all  branches  on  one  tree, — 
All  fingers,  as  it  were,  upon  one  hand. 
You  ask  me  to  be  thumb  alone ;  but  pray, 
Reft  of  the  answering  fingers  Nature  planned, 
Is  not  the  hand  deformed  for  work  or  play  ? 


134  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

"  Or  rather  take,  to  illustrate  my  thought, 

Music,  the  only  art  to  science  wrought, 

The  ideal  art,  that  underlies  the  whole, 

Interprets  all,  and  is  of  all  the  soul. 

Each  art  is,  so  to  speak,  a  separate  tone ; 

The  perfect  chord  results  from  all  in  one. 

Strike  one,  and  as  its  last  vibrations  die, 

Listen, — from  all  the  other  tones  a  cry 

Wails  forth,  half-longing  and  half-prophecy. 

So  does  the  complement,  the  hint,  the  germ 

Of  every  art  within  the  others  lie, 

And  in  their  inner  essence  all  unite ; 

For  what  is  melody  but  fluid  form, 

Or  form,  but  fixed  and  stationed  melody? 

Colours  are  but  the  silent  chords  of  light, 

Touched  by  the  painter  into  tone  and  key, 

And  harmonised  in  every  changeful  hue. 

So  colours  live  in  sound, — the  trumpet  blows 

Its  scarlet,  and  the  flute  its  tender  blue ; 

The  perfect  statue,  in  its  pale  repose, 

Has  for  the  soul  a  melody  divine, 

That  lingers  dreaming  round  each  subtle  line, 


A   CONTEMPORARY   CRITICISM.  135 

And  stills  the  gazer  lest  its  charm  he  lose. 
So  rhythmic  words,  strung  by  the  poet,  own 
Music  and  form  and  colour — every  sense 
Rhymes  with  the  rest ; — 'tis  in  the  means  alone 
The  various  arts  receive  their  difference." 

Vague,  idle  talk  !  such  stuff  as  this  I  call ; 

Pretty  for  girls — quite  metaphysical, 

Almost  poetic,  if  you  will ;  but  then, 

For  you  and  me,  or  any  reasoning  men, 

All  visionary,  vague,  impractical. 

Such  silly  jargon  lacks  all  common  sense ; 

How  can  he  dream  it  helps  him  paint,  to  know 

The  way  to  tinkle  on  ten  instruments  ? 

Or  does  he  fancy  writing  rhymes  assists 

In  laying  colours  ?     Bah  !  he's  in  the  mists. 

But  let's  go  on.     Here's  something,  I  admit, 
That  shows  a  less  deficiency  of  wit. 

"  Life  is  too  short  perfection  to  attain, 

We  all  are  maimed ;  and  do  the  best  we  can, 


136  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Each  trade  deforms  us  with  the  overstrain 
Of  some  too  favoured  faculty  or  sense, 
O'er-fostered  at  the  others'  vast  expense. 
Yet  why  should  one  Art  be  the  others'  bane  ? 
The  perfect  artist  should  be  perfect  man. 
Oh  !  let  at  least  our  theory  be  grand, 
To  make  a  whole  man,  not  to  train  a  hand ; 
Rearing  our  temple,  let  it  be  our  pride 
Nought  to  neglect,  but  build  with  patient  care 
A  perfect  temple,  finished  everywhere, 
And  not  a  mere  fagade  with  one  good  side." 

Of  course,  of  course,  if  we  were  gods  •  but  then, 

Life  is  so  short,  and  we  are  only  men. 

These  youths,  these  youths  —  there's   really  something 

great 

In  their  ambitions.     Let  our  friend  but  wait, 
And  Time  will  snuff  his  dreams  out,  one  by  one. 
I  had  such  dreams  once.     How  they  all  have  gone  ! 

"  If  I  the  model  of  a  man  should  seek, 

Where  should  I  find  him  ?  Though  the  blacksmith's  arm 


A   CONTEMPORARY   CRITICISM.  137 

Is  muscled  well,  his  lower  limbs  are  weak, 

His  shoulders  curved.     The  student  shall  I  take  ? 

His  o'erworked  brain  has  cost  his  body  harm. 

No ;  he  alone  will  serve  who  equal  strain 

Has  given  each,  the  body  and  the  brain ; 

One  who,  like  you,  most  gracious  Duke,  has  known 

The  whole  man  into  consonance  to  train. 

Grace  from  consent  of  every  force  is  shown, 

Not  where  one's  loss  has  been  another's  gain.'' 

Well  put,  my  Raffaelle  ;  it  will  never  do 
To  such  an  argument  to  say,  unot  true." 

"  Besides,  the  varied  tasking  of  the  mind 

Not  only  makes  us  sane,  but  keeps  us  strong. 

The  noblest  faculty  when  strained  too  long 

Turns  to  convention, — wearied,  seeks  to  find 

In  repetition  solace  and  repose. 

'Tis  only  the  fresh  arm  that  strikes  great  blows. 

Fallow  and  change  we  need,  not  constant  toil, 

Not  always  the  same  crop  on  the  same  soil. 

To  stretch  our  powers  demands  an  earnest  strain, 


138  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  rest,  to  strengthen  what  by  work  we  gain. 
Sleeping,  the  body  grows  in  thews  and  brain." 

That's  true,  at  least — the  body  must  have  sleep  ! 

I'm  glad  to  find  one  statement  here  at  last 

With  which  I  can  most  cordially  agree. 

Shall  I  read  more,  or  is  your  patience  past  ? 

Oh  ! — as  to  his  originality, 

Here  are  a  few  words  taken  from  a  heap. 

One  moment  first, — here's  something  not  to  skip. 

"  But  please  remember,  of  the  famous  names, 

Who  is  there  hath  confined  him  to  one  art, 

Giotto,  Da  Vinci,  or  Orcagna  ?     No, — 

Or  our  great  living  master,  Angelo, — 

They  are  whole  men,  whose  rounded  knowledge  shames 
Our  narrow  study  of  a  single  part ; 
Not  merely  painters,  dwarfed  in  all  their  aims, 
But  men  who  painted,  builded,  carved,  and  wrote  : 
Whole  diapasons — not  a  separate  note." 

Now  for  that  other  passage, — let  us  see 
His  thoughts  about  originality. 


A   CONTEMPORARY   CRITICISM.  139 

"  In  one  sense  no  man  is  original, — 
Borrowers  and  beggars  are  we,  one  and  all. 
Art,  science,  thought,  grow  up  from  age  to  age, 
And  all  are  palimpsests  upon  Time's  page. 
Our  loftiest  pedestals  are  tombs ; — the  seed 
Sown  by  the  dead  and  living  in  us  grow ; 
And  what  we  are  is  tinged  by  what  we  know. 
As  from  the  air  our  sustenance  we  draw, 
So  from  all  thought  our  private  thought  we  feed, 
Germs  strewn  from  other  minds  within  us  breed, 
And  no  one  is  his  own  unaided  law. 
Nor  from  the  age  alone  we  take  our  hue, 
But  by  the  narrower  mould  of  accident 
A  form  and  colour  to  our  life  is  lent ; 
As  under  blue  sky  grows  the  water  blue, 
Or  clouds  unto  the  mountain's  shape  are  bent. 

"Yet  each  man,  following  his  sympathies, 

Unto  himself  assimilating  all, 

Using  men's  thoughts  and  forms  as  steps  to  rise, 

Who  speaks  at  last  his  individual  word, 

The  free  result  of  all  things  seen  and  heard, 


140  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Is  in  the  noblest  sense  original. 
Each  to  himself  must  be  his  final  rule, 
Supreme  dictator,  to  reject  or  use, 
Employing  what  he  takes  but  as  his  tool. 
But  he  who,  self-sufficient,  dares  refuse 
All  aid  of  men,  must  be  a  god  or  fool. 

"  I  took  Lippino's  figure  for  St  Paul : 
What  then  ?     I  made  it,  in  the  taking,  mine, 
And  gave  it  new  life  in  a  new  design. 
I  worked  in  Perugino's  style,  but  all 
My  own  my  pictures  were  in  every  line. 
By  sympathy  of  feeling  and  of  thought, 
Not  coldly  copying,  in  his  forms  I  wrought. 
The  theme  of  the  Entombment,  I  admit, 
Was  from  an  old  sarcophagus  of  stone; 
But  to  another  purpose  using  it, 
Its  new  expression  made  it  all  my  own. 
From  all  great  men  and  minds  I  freely  learn, 
Orcagna,  Giotto,  Michael,  each  in  turn, 
Thank  them  for  help,  and  taking  what  I  find, 
Stamp  on  their  forms  the  pressure  of  my  mind. 


A  CONTEMPORARY   CRITICISM.  141 

Well !  who  that  ever  lived  did  not  the  same  ? 
Name  me  of  all  the  great  names  but  one  name — 
Old  Homer  ?  Phidias  ?  Virgil  ? — and  more  low 
In  time,  not  power,  Da  Vinci  ?  Angelo  ? 
'Tis  the  small  nature  dares  not  to  receive, 
Having  no  wealth  within  from  which  to  give. 
The  greatest  minds  the  greatest  debts  may  owe, 
And  by  their  taking  make  a  thing  to  live. 


"  Did  our  Da  Vinci  scorn,  with  studious  zeal, 
Massaccio's  nature,  Lippi's  strength  to  steal  ? 
Is  Giotto's  campanile,  soaring  there 
Like  music  up  into  our  Florence  air, 
Unfathered  by  an  ancestry  of  towers  ? 
Or  is  the  round  of  great  St  Peter's  dome. 
That  Michael  now  is  swinging  over  Rome. 
Without  a  debt  to  this  grand  dome  of  ours  ? 
And  Brunelleschi,  did  he  never  see 
The  globed  Pantheon's  massive  dignity? 
These  men  are  copyists,  then  !     But,  after  all, 
If  these  are  not,  who  is  original  ? 


142  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

"  Look  round  upon  our  Florence — each  to  each 
See  !  how  her  earnest  minds  and  hearts  unite, 
And  buttressed  thus  in  strength  attain  a  height 
Which  none  could  ever  hope  alone  to  reach  ! 
Or,  like  a  serried  phalanx  all  inspired 
By  one  great  hope,  and  moving  to  one  end, 
How  strength  and  daring  each  to  each  they  lend, 
As  on  they  press,  undaunted  and  untired  ! 
Each  fighting  for  the  truth,  and  one  for  all, 
With  no  mean  pride  to  be  original." 

Well !  here  the  true  and  false  are  mixed  with  skill ; 

But  let  him  talk  and  reason  as  he  will, 

I'm  of  the  same  opinion  as  before ; — 

A  man  must  strive  to  be  original, 

And  give  himself  to  one  art,  not  to  all. 

Besides,  the  names  and  facts  he  numbers  o'er 

Prove  but  the  rule,  being  exceptions  still. 

But,  after  all,  the  subject  is  a  bore ; 

And,  Signer  Sanzio,  you  and  all  your  talk 

(Which,  I'll  confess,  is  not  entirely  ill) 

Have  our  permission  to  withdraw. 


A   CONTEMPORARY  CRITICISM.  143 

Pray  walk 

Upon  the  balcony.     Is  any  sight 
More  fair  than  Florence  in  this  hazy  light, 
Sleeping  all  silent  in  the  afternoon, 
Like  the  enchanted  beauty,  full  of  rest, 
Her  bride-like  veil  spread  careless  on  her  breast  ? 
Our  June  this  year  has  been  a  peerless  June. 


ANTIQUE 


K 


CLEOPATRA. 

[Dedicated  to  J.  L.  M.] 

HERE,  Charmian,  take  my  bracelets, 

They  bar  with  a  purple  stain 
My  arms ;  turn  over  my  pillows — 

They  are  hot  where  I  have  lain  : 
Open  the  lattice  wider, 

A  gauze  o'er  my  bosom  throw, 
And  let  me  inhale  the  odours 

That  over  the  garden  blow. 

I  dreamed  I  was  with  my  Antony, 

And  in  his  arms  I  lay ; 
Ah,  me  !  the  vision  has  vanished — 

The  music  has  died  away. 


148  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  flame  and  the  perfume  have  perished — 
As  this  spiced  aromatic  pastille 

That  wound  the  blue  smoke  of  its  odour 
Is  now  but  an  ashy  hill. 

Scatter  upon  me  rose-leaves, 

They  cool  me  after  my  sleep, 
And  with  sandal  odours  fan  me 

Till  into  my  veins  they  creep ; 
Reach  down  the  lute,  and  play  me 

A  melancholy  tune, 
To  rhyme  with  the  dream  that  has  vanished, 

And  the  slumbering  afternoon. 

There,  drowsing  in  golden  sunlight, 

Loiters  the  slow  smooth  Nile, 
Through  slender  papyri,  that  cover 

The  wary  crocodile. 
The  lotus  lolls  on  the  water, 

And  opens  its  heart  of  gold, 
And  over  its  broad  leaf-pavement 

Never  a  ripple  is  rolled. 


CLEOPATRA.  149 

The  twilight  breeze  is  too  lazy 

Those  feathery  palms  to  wave, 
And  yon  little  cloud  is  as  motionless 

As  a  stone  above  a  grave. 

Ah,  me  !  this  lifeless  nature 

Oppresses  my  heart  and  brain  ! 
Oh  !  for  a  storm  and  thunder — 

For  lightning  and  wild  fierce  rain  ! 
Fling  down  that  lute — I  hate  it ! 

Take  rather  his  buckler  and  sword, 
And  crash  them  and  clash  them  together 

Till  this  sleeping  world  is  stirred. 

Hark  !  to  my  Indian  beauty — 

My  cockatoo,  creamy  white, 
With  roses  under  his  feathers — 

That  flashes  across  the  light 
Look  !  listen  !  as  backward  and  forward 

To  his  hoop  of  gold  he  clings, 
How  he  trembles,  with  crest  uplifted, 

And  shrieks  as  he  madly  swings  ! 


150  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Oh,  cockatoo,  shriek  for  Antony  ! 

Cry,  "  Come,  my  love,  come  home  !" 
Shriek,  "Antony!  Antony!  Antony!" 

Till  he  hears  you  even  in  Rome. 

There — leave  me,  and  take  from  my  chamber 

That  stupid  little  gazelle, 
With  its  bright  black  eyes  so  meaningless, 

And  its  silly  tinkling  bell ! 
Take  him, — my  nerves  he  vexes — 

The  thing  without  blood  or  brain, — 
Or,  by  the  body  of  Isis, 

I'll  snap  his  thin  neck  in  twain  ! 

Leave  me  to  gaze  at  the  landscape 

Mistily  stretching  away, 
Where  the  afternoon's  opaline  tremors 

O'er  the  mountains  quivering  play; 
Till  the  fiercer  splendour  of  sunset 

Pours  from  the  west  its  fire, 
And  melted,  as  in  a  crucible, 

Their  earthy  forms  expire ; 


CLEOPATRA.  1 5  I 

And  the  bald  blear  skull  of  the  desert 
With  glowing  mountains  is  crowned, 

That  burning  like  molten  jewels 
Circle  its  temples  round. 


I  will  lie  and  dream  of  the  past  time, 

yEons  of  thought  away, 
And  through  the  jungle  of  memory 

Loosen  my  fancy  to  play ; 
When,  a  smooth  and  velvety  tiger, 

Ribbed  with  yellow  and  black, 
Supple  and  cushion-footed 

I  wandered,  where  never  the  track 
Of  a  human  creature  had  rustled 

The  silence  of  mighty  woods, 
And,  fierce  in  a  tyrannous  freedom, 

I  knew  but  the  law  of  my  moods. 
The  elephant,  trumpeting,  started, 

When  he  heard  my  footstep  near, 
And  the  spotted  giraffes  fled  wildly 

In  a  yellow  cloud  of  fear. 


152  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

I  sucked  in  the  noontide  splendour, 

Quivering  along  the  glade, 
Or  yawning,  panting,  and  dreaming, 

Basked  in  the  tamarisk  shade, 
Till  I  heard  my  wild  mate  roaring, 

As  the  shadows  of  night  came  on, 
To  brood  in  the  trees'  thick  branches 

And  the  shadow  of  sleep  was  gone ; 
Then  I  roused,  and  roared  in  answer, 

And  unsheathed  from  my  cushioned  feet 
My  curving  claws,  and  stretched  me, 

And  wandered  my  mate  to  greet. 
We  toyed  in  the  amber  moonlight, 

Upon  the  warm  flat  sand, 
And  struck  at  each  other  our  massive  arms- 
How  powerful  he  was  and  grand  ! 
His  yellow  eyes  flashed  fiercely 

As  he  crouched  and  gazed  at  me, 
And  his  quivering  tail,  like  a  serpent, 

Twitched  curving  nervously. 
Then  like  a  storm  he  seized  me, 
With  a  wild  triumphant  cry, 


CLEOPATRA.  153 

And  we  met,  as  two  clouds  in  heaven 

When  the  thunders  before  them  fly. 
We  grappled  and  struggled  together, 

For  his  love  like  his  rage  was  rude ; 
And  his  teeth  in  the  swelling  folds  of  my  neck 

At  times,  in  our  play,  drew  blood. 


Often  another  suitor — 

For  I  was  flexile  and  fair — 
Fought  for  me  in  the  moonlight, 

While  I  lay  couching  there, 
Till  his  blood  was  drained  by  the  desert ; 

And,  ruffled  with  triumph  and  power, 
He  licked  me  and  lay  beside  me 

To  breathe  him  a  vast  half-hour. 
Then  down  to  the  fountain  we  loitered, 

Where  the  antelopes  came  to  drink ; 
Like  a  bolt  we  sprang  upon  them, 

Ere  they  had  time  to  shrink. 
We  drank  their  blood  and  crushed  them, 

And  tore  them  limb  from  limb, 


154  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  the  hungriest  lion  doubted 
Ere  he  disputed  with  him. 

That  was  a  life  to  live  for  ! 

Not  this  weak  human  life, 
With  its  frivolous  bloodless  passions, 

Its  poor  and  petty  strife  ! 

Come  to  my  arms,  my  hero, 

The  shadows  of  twilight  grow, 
And  the  tiger's  ancient  fierceness 

In  my  veins  begins  to  flow. 
Come  not  cringing  to  sue  me  ! 

Take  me  with  triumph  and  power, 
As  a  warrior  storms  a  fortress  ! 

I  will  not  shrink  or  cower. 
Come,  as  you  came  in  the  desert, 

Ere  we  were  women  and  men, 
When  the  tiger  passions  were  in  us, 

And  love  as  you  loved  me  then ! 


CASSANDRA.* 


{Dedicated  to  H.  C.] 


WHY  didst  thou  lift  the  veil,  beloved  one, 

Divine  Apollo,  from  these  human  eyes  ? 

The  phantom  forms  that  from  the  Future  rise 

Appal  me;  all  in  vain  I  seek  to  shun 

This  fatal  knowledge ;  horror-struck  to  see 

The  shadowy  shapes  of  coming  destiny 

Steal  forth  unsummoned  fierce  with  death  and  hate, 

But  powerless  to  avert  the  doom  of  Fate. 

Ah  !  better  blindness,  better  night,  dark  night ! 

*  A  chronological  licence  has  been  taken  in  this  poem,  which  it 
is  hoped  will  be  pardoned  in  view  of  the  mythical  character  of  the 
period. 


156  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Better  dead  loss  of  that  supreme  delight, 
Thy  love  !  better  the  worst  that  Time  conceals 
Than  all  the  coming  horrors  it  reveals. 
Shroud  me  again  in  darkness — close  the  door 
Of  the  dread  Future — torture  me  no  more 
With  these  foul  shapes  of  visionary  crime — 
These  murders  that  stare  through  the  veil  of  time,- 
These  horrors — drive  these  fearful  sights  away, 
Or  give  me  power  the  coming  crime  to  stay. 
Only  in  ignorance  is  joy;  to  rest 
In  blind  fond  trust  upon  the  Present's  breast. 
'Tis  more  than  death,  far  more,  to  see,  to  know ; 
Take  back  the  gift !     We  creatures  here  below 
Need  all  our  blindness,  need  the  mortal  veil 
Which  shuts  the  Future  out,  obscures  the  sense, 
And  hides  us  from  our  Fate.     Not  too  much  light 
May  man  endure.     Pure  truth  is  too  intense, 
It  blinds  us.     Perfect  Love  at  its  full  height 
Kills  with  excess  of  rapture.     We  are  made 
With  human  senses,  and  we  all  need  here 
Illusions,  veils,  a  tempering  atmosphere, 
And  ignorance  to  shield  us  with  its  shade — 


CASSANDRA.  157 

Ye  Gods  in  heaven  may  see  and  know,  not  fear 
The  face  of  Fate,  serene,  beyond  all  care ; 
But  when  to  us  poor  mortals  you  appear, 
Around  your  glory  ye  a  veil  must  wear, 
Or  who  could  look  and  live  ?     And  so  to  me 
Divinest  of  the  Gods  you  came ;  too  bright 
For  all  your  mortal  veil,  suffused  with  light, 
Radiant  with  splendours  of  divinity. 

Ah !  what  a  price  for  Love  I  paid !  no  more, 

Since  that  dread  gift,  the  peace,  the  tranquil  bliss 

That  once  in  my  unburdened  heart  I  bore ! 

No  more  the  careless,  thoughtless  happiness, 

The  maiden  hope,  the  unreasoning  faith,  the  scent 

Of  vague  sweet  feelings  making  redolent 

The  inmost  chambers  of  my  life  ;  'tis  o'er — 

Fled — vanished.     The  soft  veil  is  rent  away. 

Where'er  I  set  my  feet  on  the  soft  grass 

'Tis  stained  with  blood.     The  glory  of  the  day 

Is  darkened  with  foul  crimes.     The  shapes  that  pass 

Before  my  scared  and  visionary  eyes 

No  more  are  gentle  dreams,  but  ghosts  that  rise 


158  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  mock  and  threaten  from  the  unopened  tomb 
Of  the  black  Future,  and  with  voice  of  doom, 
Faint,  dim,  but  horrible,  dismay  my  soul. 

Hark  !  as  I  speak — those  voices — that  fierce  jar — 
That  murmurous  tumult  hurrying  from  afar — 
What  means  it  ?     Close  my  eyes,  my  ears  control ! 
They  come,  still  nearer,  up  the  sounding  stair. 
What  horror  now  is  brooding  o'er  this  place  ? 
What  dreadful  crime  ?     What  does  Medea  there 
In  that  dim  chamber  ?     See  on  her  dark  face 
And  serpent  brow,  rage,  fury,  love,  despair ! 
What  seeks  she  ?     There  her  children  are  at  play 
Laughing  and  talking.     Not  so  fierce,  I  say, 
You  scare  them  with  that  passionate  embrace ! 
Hark  to  those  footsteps  in  the  hall — the  loud 
Clear  voice  of  Jason  heard  above  the  crowd. 
Why  does  she  push  them  now  so  stern  away 
And  listening  glance  around, — then  fixed  and  mute, 
Her  brow  shut  down,  her  mouth  irresolute, 
Her  thin  hands  twitching  at  her  robes  the  while, 
As  with  some  fearful  purpose  does  she  stand  ? 


CASSANDRA.  159 

Why  that  triumphant  glance — that  hideous  smile — 
That  poniard  hidden  in  her  mantle  there, 
That  through  the  dropping  folds  now  darts  its  gleam  ? 
Oh  Gods !  oh,  all  ye  Gods !  hold  back  her  hand. 
Spare  them !  oh,  spare  them !  oh,  Medea,  spare ! 
You  will  not,  dare  not !  ah,  that  sharp  shrill  scream ! 
Ah ! — the  red  blood — 'tis  trickling  down  the  floor ! 
Help !  help !  oh,  hide  me !     Let  me  see  no  more ! 


PAN    IN    LOVE. 


STOP  running  more.     You  must — indeed  you  shall. 

See  how  your  feet  are  hurt.     Your  breath  comes  fast 

And  all  in  vain.     Light  as  you  are,  you  see 

I  can  outrun  you,  and  these  briers  and  brakes 

That  tear  your  tender  feet  will  never  harm 

My  horny  hoofs.     Why  do  you  fly  from  me  ? 

I  mean  no  ill.     Stop.     Rest  upon  this  bank, 

Soft  with  green  mosses,  sprinkled  with  quaint  flowers, 

And  listen  to  me  while  you  get  your  breath. 

Bacchus  is  in  the  distant  vale,  so  far 

His  cymbals  scarcely  reach  us — far  away 

Silenus  and  his  rout — they'll  never  hear 

Though  you  should  scream  with  all  your  little  voice. 


PAN   IN   LOVE.  l6l 

I  am  a  coarse,  rough  fellow,  but  I  love 

Such  smooth,  white-limbed,  soft-footed  things  as  you. 

What  shall  I  do  to  make  you  love  me  back, 

And  twine  those  arms  around  this  hairy  neck  ? 

What  shall  I  give  you  for  a  kiss  ?     Come,  sit 

On  these  rough  shaggy  knees,  and  smooth  my  cheeks 

With  your  soft  hands.     Bacchus  is  fairer  far ; 

But  he,  the  fickle,  vain,  conceited  god, 

Loves  but  himself,  and  changes  every  hour 

For  some  new  fancy.     I  will  be  more  true, 

And  love  for  ever.     Ah  !  we  ugly  gods 

Alone  are  constant,  and  that  Venus  knew 

When  she  preferred  to  all  the  dandy  crew 

Stern,  black,  old  Vulcan. 

Oh  !  dear  little  feet ! 

Dear  little  hands,  so  rosy,  tapering,  slight. 
See,  how  they  look  against  these  hands  and  hoofs, 
That  never  will  be  tired  to  work  for  you. 

Nay  !  if  you  will  not  sit  upon  my  knee, 
Lie  on  that  bank,  and  listen  while  I  play 
L 


1 62  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

A  sylvan  song  upon  these  reedy  pipes. 

In  the  full  moonrise  as  I  lay  last  night 

Under  the  alders  on  Peneus'  banks, 

Dabbling  my  hoofs  in  the  cool  stream,  that  welled 

Wine-dark  with  gleamy  ripples  round  their  roots, 

I  made  the  song  the  while  I  shaped  the  pipes. 

'Tis  all  of  you  and  love,  as  you  shall  hear. 

The  drooping  lilies,  as  I  sang  it,  heaved 

Upon  their  broad  green  leaves,  and  underneath, 

Swift  silvery  fishes,  poised  on  quivering  fins, 

Hung  motionless  to  listen ;  in  the  grass 

The  crickets  ceased  to  shrill  their  tiny  bells ; 

And  even  the  nightingale,  that  all  the  eve 

Hid  in  the  grove's  deep  green,  had  throbbed  and  thrilled, 

Paused  in  his  strain  of  love  to  list  to  mine. 

Bacchus  is  handsome,  but  such  songs  as  this 

He  cannot  shape,  and  better  loves  the  clash 

Of  brazen  cymbals  than  my  reedy  pipes. 

Fair  as  he  is  without,  he's  coarse  within — 

Gross  in  his  nature,  loving  noise  and  wine ; 

And,  tipsy,  half  the  time  goes  reeling  round, 

Leaning  on  old  Silenus'  shoulders  fat. 


PAN   IN   LOVE.  163 

But  I  have  scores  of  songs  that  no  one  knows, 

Not  even  Apollo,  no,  nor  Mercury — 

Their  strings  can  never  sing  like  my  sweet  pipes — 

Some,  that  will  make  fierce  tigers  rub  their  fur 

Against  the  oak-trunks  for  delight,  or  stretch 

Their  plump  sides  for  my  pillow  on  the  sward. 

Some,  that  will  make  the  satyrs'  clattering  hoofs 

Leap  when  they  hear,  and  from  their  noonday  dreams 

Start  up  to  stamp  a  wild  and  frolic  dance 

In  the  green  shadows.     Ay  !  and  better  songs, 

Made  for  the  delicate  nice  ears  of  nymphs, 

Which  while  I  sing  my  pipes  shall  imitate 

The  droning  bass  of  honey-seeking  bees, 

The  tinkling  tenor  of  clear  pebbly  streams, 

The  breezy  alto  of  the  alder's  sighs, 

And  all  the  airy  sounds  that  lull  the  grove 

When  noon  falls  fast  asleep  among  the  hills. 

Nor  only  these, — for  I  can  pipe  to  you 

Songs  that  will  make  the  slippery  vipers  pause, 

And  stay  the  stags  to  gaze  with  their  great  eyes ; 

Such  songs — and  you  shall  hear  them,  if  you  will — 

That  Bacchus'  self  would  give  his  hide  to  hear. 


1 64  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

If  you'll  but  love  me  every  day  I'll  bring 

The  coyest  flowers,  such  as  you  never  saw, 

To  deck  you  with.     I  know  their  secret  nooks — 

They  cannot  hide  themselves  away  from  Pan. 

And  you  shall  have  rare  garlands ;  and  your  bed 

Of  fragrant  mosses  shall  be  sprinkled  o'er 

With  violets  like  your  eyes — just  for  a  kiss. 

Love  me,  and  you  shall  do  whate'er  you  like, 

And  shall  be  tended  wheresoe'er  you  go, 

And  not  a  beast  shall  hurt  you — not  a  toad 

But  at  your  bidding  give  his  jewel  up. 

The  speckled  shining  snakes  shall  never  sting, 

But  twist  like  bracelets  round  your  rosy  arms, 

And  keep  your  bosom  cool  in  the  hot  noon. 

You  shall  have  berries  ripe  of  every  kind, 

And  luscious  peaches,  and  wild  nectarines, 

And  sunflecked  apricots,  and  honeyed  dates, 

And  wine  from  bee-stung  grapes  drunk  with  the  sun 

(Such  wine  as  Bacchus  never  tasted  yet). 

And  not  a  poisonous  plant  shall  have  the  power 

To  tetter  your  white  flesh  if  you'll  love  Pan. 


PAN    IN    LOVE.  165 

And  then  I'll  tell  you  tales  that  no  one  knows ; 

Of  what  the  pines  talk  in  the  summer  nights 

When  far  above  you  hear  them  murmuring 

As  they  sway  whispering  to  the  lifting  breeze — 

And  what  the  storm  shrieks  to  the  struggling  oaks 

As  it  flies  through  them  hurrying  to  the  sea 

From  mountain  crags  and  cliffs.     Or,  when  you're  sad, 

I'll  tell  you  tales  that  solemn  cypresses 

Have  whispered  to  me.     There's  not  anything 

Hid  in  the  woods  and  dales  and  dark  'ravines, 

Shadowed  in  dripping  caves,  or  by  the  shore, 

Slipping  from  sight,  but  I  can  tell  to  you. 

Plump,  dull-eared  Bacchus,  thinking  of  himself, 

Never  can  catch  a  syllable  of  this ; 

But  with  my  shaggy  ear  against  the  grass 

I  hear  the  secrets  hidden  underground, 

And  know  how  in  the  inner  forge  of  Earth, 

The  pulse-like  hammers  of  creation  beat. 

Old  Pan  is  ugly,  rough,  and  rude  to  see, 

But  no  one  knows  such  secrets  as  old  Pan. 

What  shall  I  give  you  for  a  kiss  ?     I  must, 


1 66  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Will  have  it.     See,  these  iris-coloured  shells, 
So  curiously  veined  with  gleamy  pearl — 
Rare  shells,  that  Venus  covets,  and  would  give 
A  thousand  kisses  for — shall  all  be  yours ; — 
And  these  great  pearls  too,  and  red  coral  beads, 
Worn  round  by  the  smooth  sea, — you  shall  have  all. 
Strung  on  your  neck,  and,  rolling  there  between 
Your  budding  breasts,  how  pretty  they  will  look  ! 
Do  not  refuse  old  Pan  one  kiss.     By  Zeus, 
How  beautiful  this  soft  and  waving  hair 
(Not  like  my  bristling  curls) ! — how  it  creeps  round 
Your  shining  shoulders,  by  the  zephyr  stirred, 
As  if  it  loved  them  !     I  can  scarcely  keep 
My  fingers  from  those  shoulders'  sweeps  and  curves. 
My  arms  desire  to  clasp  that  lithe  slight  waist. 
One  kiss — one  kiss — I  will — nay,  throw  not  back 
That  chin  and  throat,  and,  with  that  rosy  mouth 
Laugh  as  you  push  me  off.     I  must — I  will. 
You  make  me  mad.     My  very  fingers  itch. 
Come,  or  I'll  butt  my  head  against  this  tree, 
And  poor  old  Pan's  pipes  will  be  heard  no  more. 


PAN   IN    LOVE.  167 

Don't  laugh  at  me,  and  kick  me  in  the  breast 
With  those  white  feet ;  I'll  bite  them  if  you  do  ! 
You  wilful  minx,  have  pity  on  old  Pan — 
Have  pity,  or  I'll  seize  you  round  the  waist, 
And,  whether  you  will  or  not,  I'll  have  my  kiss. 


MARCUS        AURELIUS 


TO 


LUCIUS     VERUS. 


{Dedicated  to  the  Lady  William  Russell.'] 


I  HAVE  received  your  letter,  read  it  through 
With  careful  thought,  and,  to  confess  the  truth, 
I  deem  it  timid  to  a  point  beyond 
What  suits  an  Emperor, — timid  in  a  way 
Unsuited  to  the  temper  of  the  time. 
You  say  Avidius  hates  us ;  does  not  stint 
His  jests  and  sneers  at  what  we  are  and  do ; 
Has  no  respect  for  the  imperial  robes ; 
Says  you  are  an  old  woman,  whose  bald  talk 
You  deem  profound  philosophy,  while  I 


MARCUS  AURELIUS.  169 

Am  merely  a  debauched  and  studious  fool. 

You  bear  him  no  ill-will  for  this,  you  say, 

(My  noble  Lucius,  this  is  worthy  you  !) 

But  then  you  add  you  fear  he  has  designs 

To  do  us  wrong,  and  beg  me  to  keep  watch, 

Lest  he,  by  all  his  wealth  and  power,  at  last 

Compass  our  ruin.     But  consider  this— 

If  to  Avidius  Destiny  decree 

The  Empire's  purple,  all  our  art  is  vain  ! 

You  know  the  saying  of  your  ancestor, 

Our  austere  Trajan,  "  Never  was  there  prince 

Who  killed  his  own  heir ; "  no  man  e'er  prevailed 

Him  to  o'erthrow  whom  the  immortal  gods 

Had  marked  as  his  successor  :  so,  as  well, 

He  whom  the  gods  oppose  must  surely  fall, 

Not  through  our  act,  but  by  his  destiny, 

Caught  in  the  inevitable  snare  of  fate. 

Again,  the  traitor  or  the  criminal, 
Though  by  the  clearest  proof  convicted,  stands 
As  'twere  at  bay ;  one  weak  and  friendless  man 
Against  the  State's  compacted  law  and  might, 


170  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  thus  moves  pity — seeming,  as  it  were, 
From  that  unequal  match  to  suffer  wrong. 
"  Wretched,  indeed  "  (as  your  grandfather  said), 
"  The  fate  of  princes  who  make  good  their  charge 
Of  purposed  murder  by  their  martyrdom, 
Proving  the  plot  against  their  life,  by  death." 
Domitian  'twas,  in  truth,  who  spake  these  words, 
Yet  rather  would  I  call  them  Hadrian's, 
Since  tyrants'  sayings,  true  howe'er  they  be, 
Have  not  the  weight  of  good  and  noble  men's. 

As  for  Avidius,  then,  let  him  work  out 
His  secret  course,  being,  as  you  say  he  is, 
Austere  in  discipline,  a  leader  brave, 
And  one  the  State  cannot  afford  to  lose ; 
Let  him  continue  there  upon  the  edge 
Of  Daphnic  luxury,  near  by  Antioch, 
To  rein  the  army  in  and  hold  it  firm, 
Secure  that  Nemesis  awaits  on  him, 
As  on  us  all,  what  e'er  we  are  or  do : 
And  for  my  children's  interests,  and  mine, 
If  they  can  only  be  subserved  by  wrong, 


MARCUS   AURELIUS.  I/I 

Perish  my  children,  rather  than  through  wrong 
They  triumph  !     If  Avidius  deserve 
Better  than  they,  and  if  through  him  the  State 
Glory  and  strength  superior  may  gain, 
Better  he  live  and  win  the  prize  he  seeks  ! 
Better  they  die  and  yield  to  him  the  State  ! 

Please  God,  that  while  the  imperial  robes  I  wear 
No  blood  be  shed  for  me, — for  I  would  fain 
Be  called  "  The  Bloodless,"  like  our  Antonine  ! 
And  if  this  man  have  injured  me,  and  shown 
Ingratitude,  that  meanest  of  all  sins, 
At  least  he  cannot  rob  me  of  one  boon 
I  hold  the  greatest  given  by  victory, 
That  of  forgiveness.     Ever  since  the  Fates 
Placed  me  upon  the  throne,  two  aims  have  I 
Kept  fixed  before  my  eyes ;  and  they  are  these  :— 
Not  to  revenge  me  on  my  enemies, 
And  not  to  be  ungrateful  to  my  friends. 


A    SONG    OF    ISRAEL. 


OUR  Christ  shall  come  in  glory  and  in  power, 

Born  to  command. 

He  shall  not  weep  or  pray,  or  cringe  or  cower, 
But  with  God's  lightnings  in  His  hand 

Tremendous  there  shall  stand. 

All  eyes  shall  drop  before  His  awful  face 

In  doubt  and  dread; 

When  He  shall  come,  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 
The  crown  of  triumph  on  His  head, 

Even  as  the  Prophets  said. 


A   SONG   OF   ISRAEL.  1/3 

The  sharp  sword  of  His  vengeance  He  shall  wield 

To  smite  and  slay. 

Justice  shall  be  His  weapon  and  our  shield ; 
And  all  who  dare  to  disobey 

His  breath  shall  sweep  away. 

His  hand  shall  wipe  away  their  griefs  and  woes, 

Who  cling  to  Him. 

His  wrath  like  chaff  shall  scatter  all  their  foes ; 
His  power  shall  build  Jerusalem 

With  sounding  song  and  hymn. 

The  hand  and  thought  of  man  shall  quail  before 

That  shape  august; 

And  prostrate  every  face  to  earth  adore 
Him  in  whose  balance  we  are  dust, 

The  mighty  King — the  Just. 

Then  shall  the  song  of  triumph  once  again 

For  us  be  heard, 

And  Israel's  children  sound  the  joyous  strain, 
The  Christ  has  come — the  King  and  Lord — 

The  Wonderful— the  Word. 


A   PRIMITIVE  CHRISTIAN   IN    ROME. 


[Dedicated  to  T.  G.  A.] 


IT  seems  so  strange  to  us  of  the  new  faith, 
Who  feel  its  beauty,  joy,  and  holiness, 
Rising  above  this  lower  Pagan  creed, 
Like  morning  o'er  the  dark  and  dreaming  earth ; 
To  us  who  have  beheld,  known,  talked  with  those 
Who  walked  beside  our  Lord,  and  heard  his  voice, 
And  with  their  own  eyes  saw  his  miracles, — 
To  hear  these  Romans,  Marcus,  Caius — nay, 
Even  Lucius,  who  is  learned,  liberal,  trained 
In  every  school  of  thought,  deny  them  all : 
Calling  them  mere  impostures,  or  at  best, 
Distortions  of  the  facts,  half  true,  half  false, 
With  nothing  but  the  false  miraculous  ! 


A   PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN    IN   ROME.         1 

It  makes  us  grieve,  as  showing  how  they  lack 

That  sense  by  which  alone  the  natural  man, 

As  Paul  says,  can  receive  the  things  of  God. 

But  when  had  any  Roman  in  all  time 

A  spiritual  sense?     'Tis  to  the  East 

The  power  of  prophecy  is  given  :  alone 

It  shapes  religions,  has  the  inner  sight 

That  through  the  matter  sees  the  soul  beyond, 

Is  through  its  faith  receptive,  not  its  mind, 

And  nearer  unto  God,  as  is  the  child. 

The  West,  immersed  in  things,  is  as  the  man, 

And  joys  to  fashion  governments  and  laws; 

It  orders  facts,  it  thinks,  invents,  and  works, 

But  blind  and  deaf  to  spiritual  truth 

Lives  in  the  Present,  builds  no  infinite  bridge 

Into  the  Future,  hopes  not,  nor  divines. 

At  highest,  'tis  the  world's  great  intellect, 

Its  understanding,  brain,  and  not  its  soul. 

Lucius  is  of  the  West ;  he  cannot  feel 

Those  finer  impulses  beyond  the  sense, 

Those  inward  yearnings  stretching  out  of  sight, 

Where  reason  cannot  follow,  after  truth. 


176  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

As  far  as  intellect  can  lead  him  on 
Up  the  clear  path  of  logic,  he  will  go ; 
The  rest  is  nonsense,  and,  of  course,  he  likes 
The  well-trod  path  as  being  the  most  safe. 
And  thus  he  reasons  on  the  miracles  : — 

"  Of  facts  like  these,  conforming  to  no  law, 
There  are  a  thousand  chances  of  mistake 
To  one  in  favour  of  the  apparent  facts, — 
First,  self-deception ;  strong  desire  to  see 
Begets  the  power  of  seeing ;  from  itself 
The  nervously  expectant  sense  projects 
Its  image,  its  mirage,  or  hears  returned 
The  outward  echo  of  the  inward  voice ; 
And  while  the  reason  and  the  judgment  drowse, 
The  fancy  all  alive,  sees,  hears,  accepts. 
Then  come  illusions  of  the  senses  ; — Facts 
Half  seen  are  wholly  false, — scarce  facts  at  all. 
Let  but  the  fact  be  strange  and  new,  surprise 
Destroys  the  power  of  scrutiny. — Again, 
Wonder,  the  habitual  state  of  many  minds, 
(Those,  most  of  all,  religiously  inclined), 


A   PRIMITIVE  CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         1/7 

Love  of  the  marvellous,  a  dread  to  peer 

Too  keenly  into  that  which  wears  a  garb 

Of  holiness,  a  proneness  to  revere 

What  others  reverence — all  lead  astray. 

Belief  is  passive  :  it  receives,  accepts ; 

But  doubt  is  active  :  it  disputes,  rejects. 

You  think  these  wonders,  facts.     You  say  that  Christ 

Was  holy  in  his  aspect,  pure  in  life, 

And  in  his  perfectness  above  mankind. 

I  will  not  question  this  :  I  only  say 

He  was  a  man,  at  best,  and  not  a  god. 

The  Jews  could  not  have  crucified  a  god. 

No,  nor  a  demigod,  like  Hercules. 

u  Observe,  I  do  not  say  as  others  do, 
That  he  was  wicked  in  intent,  and  sought 
A  kingly  crown  above  his  wretched  tribe. 
And  if  he  did,  I  care  not.     What  he  said 
Was  well  enough,  only  it  was  not  new. 
All  that  is  good  is  found  in  Socrates, 
Or  Plato,  or  the  old  Philosophies. 
Had  he  been  born  in  Greece,  he  might,  perhaps, 
M 


178  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Have  graced  the  train  of  one  of  these  great  men. 

But  in  that  dismal  Syria,  'mid  a  herd 

Of  ignorant  Jews,  most  of  them  fishermen, 

Who  worshipped  him,  he  lost  all  common  sense. 

From  what  I  hear,  he  grew  half-cracked  at  last, 

And  thought  himself  a  god,  and  claimed  the  power 

Of  miracles,  like  other  madmen  here. 

Well,  well ;  he  suffered  for  all  that  by  death, 

And,  I  daresay,  was  better  than  the  most 

Among  that  loathsome  people.     For  all  that, 

Touched  in  his  brain  he  was,  you  must  admit. 

For  what  man  in  his  senses  ever  dreamed 

He  from  the  dead  should  rise  with  pomp  and  power 

A  kingdom  to  establish  on  the  earth  ? 

"  As  for  his  miracles,  I  do  not  doubt 

That  some  among  that  herd  of  credulous  fools, 

On  whom  he  practised,  thought  they  saw  these  things. 

But  who  was  there  with  eyes  and  mind  well  trained 

To  sift  the  facts,  to  judge  the  evidence, 

To  question,  to  examine,  to  record  ? 

Not  one ;  the  stupid  crowd  cried  '  miracle ' 


A   PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         179 

(For  everything  is  miracle  to  them) ; 

The  Scribes  and  Pharisees,  the  learned  men, 

All  stood  aloof  and  scorned  him  and  his  works. 

"And  were  they  true,  what  prove  they? — Why,  in  Rome 

These  wonder-working  magians  come  by  scores, 

Each  with  his  new  inspired  theogony, 

Each  with  his  miracle  to  prove  him  God  ! 

For  instance,  there  is  Judas,  whom  they  call 

The  Gaulonite ;  and  his  three  sons  as  well ; 

There  is  Menander,  and  Cerinthus  too, 

Theudas,  and  the  greatest  two  of  all, 

Simon  of  Gitton,  named  the  Magian, 

And  Apollonius  of  Tyana. 

Thousands  assert  for  them,  as  you  for  Christ, 

A  supernatural  power,  a  gift  divine. 

What  shall  I  say  ?     All  surely  are  not  gods  ! 

No  !  nor  a  single  one.     Some,  as  I  hear, 

Are  scholars  versed  in  Egypt's  mystic  lore, 

And  by  the  subtle  thought  of  Greece  imbued, 

With  minds  enriched  by  travel  and  strange  tongues, 

And  skilled  in  writing,  teaching,  prophecy ; 


i8o  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

'Tis  even  said  their  prophecies  prove  true  ; 
If  so,  by  chance,  by  happy  guess,  no  more. 
Yet  if  I  hold  these  miracles  of  theirs 
As  mere  delusions  (and  you  say  they  are), 
How  can  you  ask  me  to  accept  on  faith 
Those  Christ  (a  good  man,  if  you  will,  but  yet 
An  untaught  Jew  of  Galilee)  performed, 
Far  out  of  sight,  with  none  to  vouch  for  them 
Except  a  ruck  of  wretched  ignorant  Jews  ? 
As  for  their  doctrines,  systems,  forms  of  faith, 
There  is  an  Eastern  likeness  in  them  all, 
Simon  or  Christ — 'tis  nearly  the  same  thing. 

"  And  so  this  magian  had  the  power,  you  think, 
To  drive  out  shrieking  devils  from  the  breasts 
Of  madmen,  and  compel  them  by  his  will 
To  rush  into  a  herd  of  guiltless  swine ; 
Nay,  that  he  cured  the  sick,  and  raised  the  dead, 
One  Lazarus,  four  days  buried,  till  he  stank ; 
Even  more,  that  he  could  raise  himself  to  life 
When  crucified  and  dead,  and  in  his  tomb  \ 
And  all  because  these  awe-struck  vulgar  Jews 


A    PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN    IN    ROME.         l8l 

Saw  some  one  like  him,  and  affirmed  'twas  he. 

A  woman  first,  a  Mary  Magdalene, 

Set  all  these  stories  going.     Who  was  she  ? 

A  half-mad  courtesan,  one  who  had  owned 

Her  seven  devils — but  of  her  the  less 

You  say  the  better.     You'll  at  least  admit 

The  kingdom  that  he  promised  on  the  earth, 

The  pomp,  the  power,  the  glory,  were  all  trash. 

He  vanished  very  swiftly  out  of  sight 

For  all  his  promises,  and  left  the  fools 

Who  trusted  him  to  gape  and  stare  to  see 

Some  day  the  heavens  open,  as  he  said, 

And  him  with  angels  coming.     When  he  comes 

Pray  give  me  notice ; — I,  too,  will  believe ; 

Till  then,  excuse  me ;  on  such  evidence 

Of  such  grave  portents,  I  to  change  my  faith  ! 

I  would  not  hang  a  sparrow  on  it  all." 

So  Lucius  thinks,  and  talks,  and  never  sees 
How  strange  a  contradiction  in  him  lies ; 
For  he  believes  in  all  the  wildest  myths, 
And  miracles,  and  wonders  of  his  gods, 


1 82  GRAFFITI   D'lTALlA. 

Ay,  and  his  demigods  as  well,  and  pays 

To  them  his  reverential  sacrifice. 

Like  a  good  pagan,  he  believes  them  all, 

Though  he  admits,  of  course,  he  never  saw, 

Nor  any  eyes  of  any  living  man ; 

Though  all  the  evidence  is  far  away, 

Dimmed  and  obscured  by  misty  centuries ; 

And  though  these  myths  are  vouched  by  writings  vague 

Or  by  tradition  only,  differing,  too, 

In  each  tradition.     Yet  this  faith  being  fixed, 

Established  by  long  ages  of  belief, 

It  must  be  true ;  and  our  good  Lucius  sees 

In  all  these  variations  proofs  of  truth. 

The  facts  remain,  he  says,  despite  them  all, 

Coloured  by  this  report  or  that  report, 

For  this  ist human  merely — only  shows 

How  various  minds  are  variously  impressed  ; 

One  sees  the  fact  as  red,  one  green,  one  blue, 

But  all  this  difference  proves  the  existing  fact. 

But  when  Christ  comes  within  our  very  reach, 
And  living  crowds  behold  his  miracles, 


A   PRIMITIVE  CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         183 

Attesting  them  by  strenuous  belief, 

And  sudden  cries,  and  life-long  change  of  faith, 

All  were  deceived ;  such  strange  things  cannot  be  ! 

Yet  either  they  were  true  or  false.     If  false, 

How  were  these  crowds  impressed  to  think  they  saw 

What  never  happened  ?     Is  not  this  as  strange, 

As  wondrous  as  the  miracles  themselves  ? 

"Tricks,  tricks,"  he  says,  "they  only  thought  they  saw; 

Do  not  a  juggler's  tricks  deceive  us  all  ? 

I  have  no  faith  in  Apollonius 

For  all  the  evidence—  it  must  be  trick. 

In  ancient  times  the  gods  came  down  to  man, 

Assuming  human  powers — but  that  is  past ; 

But  when  a  human  creature  of  to-day 

Assumes  their  functions,  and  works  miracles 

Against  the  laws  of  nature,  and  calls  up 

The  dead,  the  best  thing  is  to  hold  him  mad." 

No  !  Lucius  will  not  try  the  old  and  new 
By  the  same  test ;  a  kind  of  mystery  shrouds 
The  ancient  fact ;  the  current  of  belief 
For  generations  carries  him  along. 


1 84  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  early  faith,  stamped  on  his  childish  mind, 

Can  never  be  erased — 'tis  deep  as  life. 

The  priest,  the  sacrifice,  the  daily  rites, 

The  formula,  the  fashion,  the  old  use 

Possess  him,  colouring  all  his  life  and  thought ; 

And  we,  who  in  the  new,  pure  faith  rejoice, 

Seem  to  his  eyes,  at  least,  but  fools  misled, 

Who  only  seek  his  gods  to  overthrow, 

And  to  whom  ruin  in  the  end  must  come. 

We  smile  in  pity — let  us,  too,  be  just. 

'Tis  hard  to  root  up  all  one's  faith  at  once ; 

All  the  old  feelings,  all  the  happy  dreams, 

All  the  sweet  customs,  the  long  growth  of  years. 

The  very  superstitions  of  our  youth 

Have  fragrance  in  them.     Underneath  the  words, 

We  faltered  clinging  to  a  mother's  hand, 

A  dim,  sweet  music  flows.     To  that  old  song 

No  new-writ  verse  will  ever  run  so  smooth. 

We  strike  his  faith,  and  whoso  strikes  our  faith 
We  hold  as  foe — and  oft  lose  sight  of  Truth 
Defending  dogmas,  doctrines,  formulas, 


A   PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         185 

Shells  though  they  be,  from  which  the  life  has  fled. 
While  yet  the  mind  is  plastic  to  a  touch, 
The  die  of  doctrine  strikes,  deep  in,  our  faith, 
And  age  but  hardens  the  impression  there. 
Half  our  fixed  notions  are  but  ancient  ruts 
Of  empty  words  and  formulas  of  thought, 
Worn  in  by  repetition  and  long  use — 
And  easy  run  the  wheels  within  these  ruts. 
He  who  assails  and  goads  the  mind  to  think, 
Or  starts  it  from  the  grooves  of  prejudice, 
We  call  foul  names,  we  hate,  we  scorn,  we  fear ; 
He  seems  at  once  a  foe  to  man  and  God. 
What  will  he  do  ?     Old  superstitious  props 
Hold  up  our  lives ;  if  they  be  stricken  down, 
What  shall  befall  us  ?     Oh  !  that  way  lies  death  ! 
Old  miracles,  myths,  dogmas,  all  things  old, 
Are  reverent  for  their  age.     It  is  the  new 
We  have  to  fear  :  as  if  God  did  not  work 
With  fresh  abounding  power  in  our  own  day, 
In  our  own  souls ;  as  if  dead  creeds  could  hold 
The  living  spirit,  and  these  pagan  husks 
For  ever  feed  the  soul  that  starves  for  Truth. 


1 86  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

I  will  not  say  but  in  old  myths  resides 

Something  of  good — some  tender  living  germ 

Of  beauty  and  delight.     Though  I  renounce 

Their  errors  for  this  higher,  holier  life 

That  Christ  has  given ;  still  'tis  sweet  to  think 

Of  Aphrodite  rising  from  the  sea, 

The  incarnate  dream  of  beauty ;  of  the  staid, 

Calm  dignity  of  wisdom  bodied  forth 

In  grand  Minerva ;  of  the  gracious  joy, 

The  charm  of  nature,  Bacchus  represents ; 

Of  Flora  scattering  flowers  and  breathing  spring ; 

Of  all  those  lovely  shapes  that  lurking  gleam 

Through  nature's  sunny  openings.     Ah  !  I  know 

Reason  rejects  them  for  a  higher  thought, 

And  yet,  at  times,  that  old  sweet  faith  returns 

To  tempt  me  back  in  its  poetic  train. 

At  times,  the  one  Eternal  Father  seems 

So  far  away,  and  this  fair  world  that  teemed 

With  airy  shapes,  so  void  and  cold  and  bare. 

But  this  is  folly.     Yet  if  in  my  heart 
Old  superstitions  still  possess  a  charm, 


A    PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         1 87 

How  harshly  blame  our  Lucius,  who  remains 
Fixed  in  the  old — to  whom  we  only  seem 
Rash  innovators,  bringing  in  new  gods  ? 

Of  other  stuff  is  our  friend  Caius  made. 

The  folly  of  this  faith  he  will  admit ; 

"  And  yet,"  he  says,  "  the  system  stands  our  stead 

Despite  its  follies — why  then  cast  it  down  ? 

Truth  is  impossible ;  we  cannot  know  ; 

The  impenetrable  veil  of  destiny 

Behind  our  life,  before  our  life  is  dropped. 

All  is  an  idle  guess,  and  this  mixed  creed 

Of  superstitions  has  its  gleams  of  truth. 

It  served  our  fathers ;  if  we  cast  it  down 

Then  chaos  comes.     Thinking  results  at  last 

In  wretchedness.     We  cannot  hope  to  know. 

Only  the  gods  know.     Man's  mind  must  be  fed 

With  superstitions  mixed  with  truth ;  pure  truth 

Would  merely  madden ;  for  as  we  are  made 

Half  mind,  half  matter,  so  our  thoughts  must  be. 

Then  let  our  faith  stand  where  it  is ;  the  beams 

Are  rotten  here  and  there,  but  he  who  mends 


1 88  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

May  topple  down  the  temple  on  our  heads, 

And  leave  us  godless.     Nay,  the  parasite 

Of  superstition,  like  the  ivy,  knits 

The  old  wall's  crumbling  stones.     For  higher  minds 

A  higher  truth,  a  purer  faith — but  that 

Through  all  these  forms,  we,  who  have  eyes,  can  see, 

The  forms  themselves  the  common  herd  demand. 

Since  all  at  last  is  theory,  the  best 

Is  to  be  happy,  calm,  and  confident. 

What  is,  is — and  we  cannot  alter  it. 

Then  plague  me  not  with  revelations  new. 

All  things  are  revelations ;  every  creed 

Comes  from  above,  from  God,  from  all  the  gods. 

Pure  sunlight  blinds  the  eye,  so  comes  it  veiled 

With  soft  suffusion  in  the  ambient  air; 

The  sun,  itself  one  speck — the  positive 

Set  in  an  infinite  negative  of  sky, 

And  beauty,  offspring  of  the  eternal  light, 

Dimmed  to  soft  hues  to  suit  our  mortal  sense. 

"  As  for  your  miracles,  I  heed  them  not ; 
For  all  things,  in  one  sense,  are  miracles. 


A   PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN   IN    ROME.         189 

Who  can  explain  the  simplest  fact  of  life, 
As  how  we  see,  or  move  our  hand,  or  speak, 
Or  how  we  think,  or  what  is  life  or  death. 
By  dint  of  daily  doing  use  wears  out 
All  strangeness ;  and  with  words  which  but  restate 
And  group  the  facts,  we  fancy  we  explain. 
Our  so-called  laws  of  nature  are  but  rules 
Drawn  by  experience  from  recurrent  facts, 
Which  every  new  phenomenon  corrects. 
Cause  and  effect  are  only  cheating  words ; 
We  know  no  causes,  we  but  see  effects. 
Yet,  as  in  one  sense  all  is  miracle, 
So,  in  another,  no  such  thing  exists. 
The  new,  the  strange,  outside  the  common  rule 
Of  man's  experience,  seems  miraculous, 
For  mortal  eyes  are  dim,  and  short  of  sight. 
But  could  we  through  this  world's  phenomena 
Pierce  to  the  essence  and  the  life  of  things, 
All  would  arrange  itself  to  perfect  law- 
No  breaches,  no  exceptions,  all  pure  law." 

Our  Decimus,  who  hopes  to  win  the  rank 


1 90  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Of  tribune,  takes  a  somewhat  different  view. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me,"  he  says,  "of  right  or  wrong, 

Of  true  or  false,  we  all  must  take  the  world 

For  what  it  is.     Against  established  things 

Why  run  your  head,  and  spoil  your  chance  in  life  ? 

Christ  may  have  been  a  god,  or  he  may  not, 

But  here  in  Rome  we  worship  other  gods ; 

Better  or  worse  is  not  the  question  here. 

If  you  would  win  success,  go  with  the  crowd, 

Nor  like  a  fool  against  the  current  strive ; 

What  will  you  gain  by  warring  with  the  time, 

And  preaching  doctrines  that  the  general  mind 

Considers  impious  ?     Even  were  they  true, 

They  only  raise  up  foes  to  tread  you  down. 

As  for  myself,  I'm  not  the  babbling  fool 

To  utter  all  I  think.     I  sacrifice 

With  all  the  rest,  perform  the  common  rites, 

And  do  the  thing  that's  deemed  respectable ; 

And  so  I  win  the  favour  of  all  men. 

What  care  I  if  the  crowd  be  right  or  wrong  ? 

I  use  them  just  to  serve  my  purposes, 

As  steps  whereby  to  rise  to  place  and  power. 


A   PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         I 

One  should  not  be  the  last  to  leave  the  old, 
Nor  yet  the  first  to  welcome  in  the  new. 
The  popular  belief — that  is  my  faith ; 
My  gods  are  always  on  the  side  that  wins." 

Marcus,  the  augur,  whose  whole  life  is  spent 

In  omens,  auguries,  and  sacrifice. 

And  service  at  the  temple  in  white  robes, 

So  deep  is  sunken  in  the  pagan  rut 

He  cannot  start  his  mind  even  to  think. 

Our  creed  to  him  is  rank  impiety, 

Worthy  of  death.     He  to  the  beasts  would  throw 

Whoever  dares  our  doctrines  to  embrace. 

His  faith  is  absolute ;  no  shade  of  doubt 

Has  ever  crossed  him ;  he  is  planted  there 

Firm  as  a  tree,  or  rather,  like  a  wall ; 

A  tree  lives,  grows,  but  he  is  simply  dead, 

Stone  upon  stone,  dull,  dead,  fixed,  like  a  wall. 

Thus,  buttressed  up  by  custom's  honoured  props, 

Established  in  the  faith  of  centuries, 

Engraved  with  mystic  lines  and  Orphean  hymns, 

Old  saws  and  sacred  lore  of  ancient  priests, 


I Q2  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

An  honest,  absolute,  stolid  wall  he  stands, 

Firm  to  uphold  the  statues  of  the  gods, 

And  shield  them  from  the  assaults  of  impious  men. 

If  I  beseech  him  to  consider  well 

And  reason  on  his  faith,  he  cries,  amazed, 

"  Reason  !  what  more  fallacious  guide  than  that  ? 

Reason  !  with  human  reason  do  you  dare 

To  explain  the  gods,  and  to  assail  our  faith  ? 

They  in  the  days  of  old  revealed  themselves, 

Assumed  our  shapes,  ordained  the  sacrifice 

Of  blood  and  wine  upon  our  altars  poured, 

Their  power  attested  by  miraculous  deeds, 

And  still  by  omens,  portents,  auguries, 

Inform  and  aid  us  on  our  human  path. 

You  do  not  understand  them  ?  oh,  indeed  ! 

And  so  you  summon  them  before  your  bar, 

Bid  them  explain  their  doings  and  their  laws, 

And  if  they  fail  to  meet  your  views,  why,  then 

You  judge  them  and  reject  them.     Oh,  I  see  ! 

The  gods  must  ask  leave  to  be  gods  from  us, 

And  beg  our  pardon  if  by  ways  obscure, 

Instead  of  common  human  ways,  they  work, 


A   PRIMITIVE   CHRISTIAN   IN   ROME.         193 

Or  else  we  will  arise  and  get  new  gods. 

Oh,  Jupiter  !  who  are  these  impious  men  ? 

Whence  do  they  come,  what  do  they  mean,  who  thus 

Set  up  at  Rome  their  superstitions  vile, 

And  with  their  feeble  reason  dare  oppose 

The  will  of  heaven?     Go,  atheist, infidel, 

Go,  and  ask  pardon  of  the  gods,  and  learn 

Obedience,  and  humility,  and  fear, 

Or  Jove  himself  will  from  his  right  hand  launch 

His  thunderbolt,  and  sweep  you  to  your  fate." 

At  times,  this  solid,  settled  faith  of  his 
Shakes  me  with  doubt.     For  what  if  he  be  right, 
And  this  new  faith  that  so  commends  itself 
To  all  I  am  and  hope,  be,  at  the  worst, 
Temptation  and  delusion,  shall  I  set 
My  face  against  the  verdict  of  the  world  ? 
Shall  not  the  faith  that  soothed  the  dying  bed 
Of  Socrates — the  faith  that  Plato  taught 
And  Cicero  avowed,  suffice  for  me  ? 
Shall  I  dare  question  what  such  minds  affirm  ? 
"  Obey  !  Obey  !"  a  voice  within  me  cries 
N 


IQ4  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

(Tis  the  old  echo  of  my  early  faith), 

And  then,  "  Arouse  ! "  cries  out  a  stronger  voice, 

"  Arouse  !  shake  off  this  torpor  !     Sink  not  down 

In  the  old  creed — easy  because  'tis  old ; 

In  the  dead  faith — so  fixed,  because  'tis  dead." 

Let  us  go  in  and  speak  with  Paul  again. 
He  is  so  strong,  he  braces  up  our  faith, 
And  stiffens  all  the  sinews  of  the  mind. 


ORESTES. 


How  tranquil  is  the  night !  how  calm  and  deep 
This  sacred  silence  !     Not  an  olive-leaf 
Is  stirring  on  the  slopes ;  all  is  asleep — 
All  silent,  save  the  distant  drowsy  streams 
That  down  the  hillsides  murmur  in  their  dreams. 
The  vast  sad  sky  all  breathless  broods  above, 
And  peace  and  rest  this  solemn  temple  steep. 
Here  let  us  rest — it  is  the  hour  of  love — 
Forgetting  human  pain  and  human  grief. 

But  see  !  half-hidden  in  the  columned  shade, 
Who  panting  stands,  with  hollow  eyes  dismayed, 


196  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

That  glance  around  as  if  they  feared  to  see 

Some  dreaded  shape  pursuing  ?     Can  it  be 

Orestes,  with  those  cheeks  so  trenched  and  worn— 

That  brow  with  sorrow  seamed,  that  face  forlorn  ? 

Ay,  'tis  Orestes  !  we  are  not  alone. 

What  human  place  is  free  from  human  groan  ? 

Ay,  'tis  Orestes  !     In  the  temple  there, 

Refuge  he  seeks  from  horror,  from  despair. 

Look  !  where  he  listens,  dreading  still  to  hear 

The  avenging  voices  sounding  in  his  ear — 

The  awful  voices  that,  by  day  and  night, 

Pursue  relentless  his  despairing  flight. 

Ah  !  vain  the  hope  to  flee  from  Nemesis  ! 

He  starts — again  he  hears  the  horrent  hiss 

Of  the  fierce  Furies  through  the  darkness  creep. 

And  list !  along  the  aisles  the  angry  sweep, 

The  hurrying  rush  of  trailing  robes — as  when, 

Through  shivering  pines  asleep  in  some  dim  glen, 

Fierce  Auster  whispers.     Yes,  even  here  they  chase 

Their  haunted  victim — even  this  sacred  place 

Stays  not  their  fatal  footsteps.    As  they  come, 

Behold  him  with  that  stricken  face  of  doom 


ORESTES.  197 

Fly  to  the  altar,  and  there  falling  prone, 

Strike  with  his  brow  Apollo's  feet  of  stone. 

"  Save  me  ! "  he  cries  ;  "  Apollo  !  hear  and  save ; 

Not  even  the  dead  will  sleep  in  their  dark  grave. 

They  come — the  Furies  !     To  this  tortured  breast 

Not  even  night,  the  calm,  the  peaceful,  can  give  rest. 

Stretch    forth    thy  hand,  great   God!     and   bid   them 

cease. 
Peace,  oh  Apollo  !  give  the  victim  peace  !  " 

See  !  the  white  arm  above  him  seems  to  wave, 

And  all  at  once  is  silent  as  the  grave, 

And  sleep  stoops  down  with  noiseless  wings  outspread, 

And  brooding  hovers  o'er  Orestes'  head ; 

And  like  a  gust  that  roars  along  the  plain 

Seaward,  and  dies  far  off,  so  dies  the  pain, 

The  deep  remorse,  that  long  his  life  hath  stung, 

And  he  again  is  guiltless,  joyous,  young. 

Again  he  plays,  as  in  the  olden  time, 

Through  the  cool  marble  halls,  unstained  by  crime. 

Hope  holds  his  hands,  joy  strikes  the  sounding  strings, 

Love  o'er  him  fluttering  shakes  his  purple  wings, 


198  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  sorrow  hides  her  face,  and  dark  death  creeps 
Into  the  shade,  and  every  Fury  sleeps. 

Sleep  !  sleep,  Orestes  !  let  thy  torments  cease  ! 
Sleep  !  great  Apollo  grants  thy  prayer  for  peace. 
Sleep  !  while  the  dreams  of  youth  around  thee  play, 
And  the  fierce  Furies  rest. — Let  us  away. 


TO    FORTUNE. 


OH  Goddess  !  fixed  and  fair  and  calm, 
That  bearest  in  thy  grasp  the  palm — 
That  bearest  in  thy  grasp  the  rod — • 
Oh  voice  of  Fate  !  oh  smile  of  God  ! — 

Be  gracious — lend  to  us  thy  ear — 
Be  not  too  awful,  too  austere. 
Against  thy  will  no  power  avails  ; 
Without  thy  aid  all  struggle  fails. 

Stayed  by  thy  hand,  no  reed  so  spare 
But,  column-like,  life's  weight  will  bear ; 
Reft  of  thy  hand  our  steps  to  lead, 
The  brazen  shaft  is  like  a  reed. 


2OO  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Blow  but  thy  breath  across  the  sea, 
Our  galleys  go  triumphantly ; 
Avert  thy  face,  though  skies  are  fair 
We  sink  and  founder  in  despair. 

Dear  Goddess,  turn  to  us  thy  face  ! 
Not  justice  we  implore,  but  grace ; 
Give  us  what  none  can  win  or  buy — 
Thy  godlike  gift,  prosperity. 


PRAXITELES   AND    PHRYNE. 


{Dedicated  to  R.  £. 


A  THOUSAND  silent  years  ago, 

The  twilight  faint  and  pale 
Was  drawing  o'er  the  sunset  glow 

Its  soft  and  shadowy  veil ; 

When  from  his  work  the  Sculptor  stayed 

His  hand,  and  turned  to  one 
Who  stood  beside  him,  half  in  shade, 

Said,  with  a  sigh,  "  'Tis  done. 

"  Thus  much  is  saved  from  chance  and  change, 
That  waits  for  me  and  thee ; 


202  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Thus  much — how  little  !— from  the  range 
Of  Death  and  Destiny. 

"  Phryne,  thy  human  lips  shall  pale, 

Thy  rounded  limbs  decay, — 
Nor  love  nor  prayers  can  aught  avail 

To  bid  thy  beauty  stay ; 

"  But  there  thy  smile  for  centuries 

On  marble  lips  shall  live, — 
For  Art  can  grant  what  love  denies, 

And  fix  the  fugitive. 

"  Sad  thought !  nor  age  nor  death  shall  fade 

The  youth  of  this  cold  bust ; 
When  this  quick  brain  and  hand  that  made, 

And  thou  and  I  art  dust ! 

"  When  all  our  hopes  and  fears  are  dead, 

And  both  our  hearts  are  cold, 
And  love  is  like  a  tune  that's  played, 

And  Life  a  tale  that's  told, 


PRAXITELES  AND    PHRYNE.  2O3 

"  This  senseless  stone,  so  coldly  fair, 

That  love  nor  life  can  warm, 
The  same  enchanting  look  shall  wear, 

The  same  enchanting  form. 

"  Its  peace  no  sorrow  shall  destroy ; 

Its  beauty  age  shall  spare 
The  bitterness  of  vanished  joy, 

The  wearing  waste  of  care. 

"  And  there  upon  that  silent  face 

Shall  unborn  ages  see 
Perennial  youth,  perennial  grace, 

And  sealed  serenity. 

"  And  strangers,  when  we  sleep  in  peace, 

Shall  say,  not  quite  unmoved, 
So  smiled  upon  Praxiteles 

The  Phryne  whom  he  loved." 


MARCUS     ANTONIUS. 


{Dedicated  to  L.  C.] 


'Tis  vain,  Fonteus  ! — As  the  half-tamed  steed, 

Scenting  the  desert,  lashes  madly  out, 

And  strains  and  storms  and  struggles  to  be  freed, 

Shaking  his  rattling  harness  all  about — 

So,  fiercer  for  restraint,  here  in  my  breast 

Hot  passion  rages,  firing  every  thought ; 

For  what  is  honour,  prudence,  interest 

To  the  wild  strength  of  love  ?     Oh  best  of  life, 

My  joy,  hope,  triumph,  glory,  my  soul's  wife, 

My  Cleopatra  !     I  desire  thee  so 

That  all  restraint  to  the  wild  winds  I  throw. 


MARCUS   ANTONIUS.  2O5 

Come  what  come  will,  come  life,  come  death,  to  me 

'Tis  equal,  if  again  I  look  on  thee. 

Away,  Fonteus  !  tell  her  that  I  rage 

With  madness  for  her.     Nothing  can  assuage 

The  strong  desire,  the  torment,  the  fierce  stress 

That  whirls  my  thoughts  round,  and  inflames  my  brain, 

But  her  great  ardent  eyes — dark  eyes,  that  draw 

My  being  to  them  with  a  subtle  law 

And  an  almost  divine  imperiousness. 

Tell  her  I  do  not  live  until  I  feel 

The  thrill  of  her  wild  touch,  that  through  each  vein 

Electric  shoots  its  lightning ;  and  again 

Hear  those  low  tones  of  hers,  although  they  steal 

As  by  some  serpent-charm  my  will  away, 

And  wreck  my  manhood. 

Oh  !  Octavia, 

This  lying  galls  me — this  poor  mean  pretence 
Of  love — this  putting  every  word  to  school — 
When  all  at  best  is  blank  indifference. 
Even  hate  for  you  is  only  cold  and  dull — 
I  hate  you  that  I  cannot  hate  you  more. 
Were  you  but  savage,  wicked  to  the  core, 


206  GRAFFITI   D'lTALlA. 

Less  pious,  prudish,  prudent,  made  to  rule, 
I  might  have  loved  or  hated  more ;  but  now 
Nothing  on  earth  seems  half  so  deadly  chill 
As  your  insipid  smile  and  placid  brow, 
Your  glacial  goodness  and  proprieties. 

Tell  my  dear  serpent  I  must  see  her — fill 
My  eyes  with  the  glad  light  of  her  great  eyes, 
Though  death,  dishonour,  anything  you  will, 
Stand  in  the  way  !     Ay,  by  my  soul !  disgrace 
Is  better  in  the  sun  of  Egypt's  face 
Than  pomp  or  power  in  this  detested  place. 
Oh  for  the  wine  my  queen  alone  can  pour 
From  her  rich  nature  !     Let  me  starve  no  more 
On  this  weak  tepid  drink  that  never  warms 
My  life-blood  :  but  away  with  shams  and  forms 
Away  with  Rome  !     One  hour  in  Egypt's  eyes 
Is  worth  a  score  of  Roman  centuries. 
Away,  Fonteus  !     Tell  her,  till  I  see 
Those  eyes  I  do  not  live — that  Rome  to  me 
Is  hateful, — tell  her — oh  !  I  know  not  what — 
That  every  thought  and  feeling,  space  and  spot 


MARCUS   ANTONIUS.  2O/ 

Is  like  an  ugly  dream,  where  she  is  not ; 
All  persons  plagues  ;  all  doing  wearisome ; 
All  talking  empty ;  all  these  feasts  and  friends — 
These  slaves  and  courtiers,  princes,  palaces — 
This  Caesar,  with  his  selfish  aims  and  ends, 
His  oily  ways  and  sleek  hypocrisies — 
This  Lepidus  ;  and,  worse  than  all  by  far, 
This  mawkish,  pious,  prude  Octavia — 
Are  bonds  and  fetters,  tedious  as  disease, 
Not  worth  the  parings  of  her  finger-nails. 

Oh  for  the  breath  of  Egypt ! — the  soft  nights 
Of  the  voluptuous  East — the  dear  delights 
We  tasted  there — the  lotus-perfumed  gales 
That  dream  along  the  low  shores  of  the  Nile, 
And  softly  flutter  in  the  languid  sails  ! 
Oh  for  the  queen  of  all ! — for  the  rich  smile 
That  glows  like  autumn  over  her  dark  face — 
For  her  large  nature — her  enchanting  grace — 
Her  arms,  that  are  away  so  many  a  mile  ! 
Away,  Fonteus  ! — lose  no  hour — make  sail- 
Weigh  anchor  on  the  instant — woo  a  gale 


2O8  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

To  blow  you  to  her.     Tell  her  I  shall  be 

Close  on  your  very  heels  across  the  sea, 

Praying  that  Neptune  send  me  storms  as  strong 

As  Passion  is,  to  sweep  me  swift  along, 

Till  the  white  spray  sing  whistling  round  my  prow, 

And  the  waves  gurgle  'neath  the  keel's  sharp  plough. 

Fly,  fly.  Fonteus  !     When  I  think  of  her 

My  soul  within  my  body  is  astir ! 

My  wild  blood  pulses,  and  my  hot  cheeks  glow  ! 

Love  with  its  madness  overwhelms  me  so 

That  I — oh  !  go,  I  say  !  Fonteus,  go  ! 


MODERN 


G  I  A  N  N  O  N  E. 


{Dedicated  to  E.  S.] 


TAKE  a  cigar — draw  up  your  chair, 
There's  at  least  a  good  half-hour  to  spare 
Before  the  Capuchin  clock  strikes  one, 
And  the  bell,  with  a  sharp  spasmodic  tinkle, 
Rouses  the  Frati  to  shuffle  to  prayer, 
And  the  altar  candles  begin  to  twinkle 
In  the  cheerless  chapel,  bleak  and  bare — 
By  Jove  !  we  are  better  off  here  than  there. 
And  now,  as  \h&  friend  of  yours  has  gone, 
There's  a  word  I  must  whisper  to  you,  alone. 

Friends  grow  dearer,  and  hearts  draw  nearer, 
Calmed  in  the  silent  centre  of  night ; 


212  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

And  words  we  may  say,  that  the  full  mid-day, 
If  it  should  hear  us,  would  jeer  outright. 
Day,  with  its  din,  for  distrust  and  doubt ! 
Night  for  confidence,  friendship,  love  ! 
The  day's  work  done,  and  the  world  shut  out, 
The  streets  all  silent,  the  stars  above, 
Pleasant  it  is  to  gather  about 
The  fire  of  wood,  and  muse  and  dream, 
And  talk  of  the  hopes  and  joys  of  youth, 
And  open  our  hearts  and  confess  the  truth, 
Ceasing  to  make-believe  and  seem. 

Fling  another  log  on  the  fire, 

Another  log  from  the  Sabine  hill, 

And  a  heap  of  those  rusty  crackling  canes 

That  out  on  the  sunny  Campagna  plains 

Held  on  their  trellis  the  grape-hung  vine, 

Whose  blood  was  drained  for  this  purple  wine, 

Our  straw-enwoven  fiasco  to  fill. 

Look  !  the  old  tendrils,  stiff  as  wire, 

Cling  to  them  still  with  their  strong  desire, 

Outlasting  death — as  our  friendship  will. 


GIANNONE.  213 

How  the  flame  bickers,  and  quivers,  and  flickers, 

Darting  its  eager  tongues  about ! 

Then  blazes  abroad  with  genial  flashes, 

Till  the  sap  comes  singing  and  bubbling  out. 

Wild  as  a  Mcenad  with  myriad  fancies, 

Hither  and  thither  it  leaps  and  dances, 

Fitful,  whimsical,  glad,  and  free, 

Like  a  living  thing  with  a  heart  and  soul. 

Oh,  the  wood-fire  is  the  fire  for  me  ! 

Away  with  your  heartless  mechanical  coal, 

Your  vulgar  drudge,  so  sullen  and  slow, 

That  ne'er  with  a  flame  of  fancy  flashes, 

But  burns  with  a  grim  and  business  glow, 

And  crumbles  away  to  dirty  ashes, 

And  smells  of  the  furnace  and  factory. 

Talk  of  the  home  and  hearth  !  of  late 

Nothing  we've  had  but  house  and  grate — 

No'thing  in  England  to  warm  to  the  core, 

Like  the  vast  old  chimneys  and  fires  of  yore, 

When  the  great  logs  blazed  with  a  genial  roar. 

Hark  to  that  mossy  log,  whose  heart 


214  GRAFFITI   D'lTALlA. 

The  contadino  has  cloven  apart, 

Singing  its  death-song  !     How  it  tells 

What  the  cicadae  chirped  in  the  dells, 

When  it  was  young,  and  its  leafy  pride 

Shadowed  Pan  with  its  branches  wide ; 

And  what  old  Auster,  bluff  and  bold, 

Screamed  in  its  ear  while  it  shivered  with  cold. 

Thousands  of  idyls  it  has  to  sing, 

Of  love  and  summer,  of  youth  and  spring ; 

Of  the  Dryad  that  slipt  with  her  rustling  dress 

Into  its  murmurous  leafiness ; 

Of  the  rout  of  Bacchanals,  ivy-crowned, 

Shaking  the  air  with  the  cymbal's  sound, 

While  the  yawning  panther's  velvet  foot 

Pressed  the  rank  grasses  over  its  root; — 

Of  the  timorous  Naiad,  pearled  with  dew, 

That  fled  to  the  bubbling  torrent  near, 

And,  hid  by  the  bushes,  looked  trembling  through 

At  the  smooth-limbed  Bacchus,  in  love  and  fear ; 

Of  the  chance  and  change  of  the  season's  spell, 

Of  musical  birds  and  odorous  flowers,      v 

Of  the  storm  that  swept  like  a  chorded  shell 


GIANNONE.  215 

The  groaning  forest — of  whispering  showers, 

Of  all  that,  rooted  there,  it  beheld, 

Since  first  in  its  veins  the  young  sap  swelled. 

But  what  like  this  has  your  coal  to  tell  ? 

Black  old  mummy ;  what  has  it  known, 

Since  the  earth  was  a  bubbling  lava-vat, 

Sunk  in  its  dreary  silent  tomb, 

But  the  earthquake's  rumbling  sound  of  doom. 

Till  it  leapt  to  light  with  a  split  and  groan, 

With  a  toad,  perhaps,  encased  in  its  stone — 

How  can  you  warm  your  heart  at  that  ? 

How  the  wood  blazes  !     Fill  my  glass  ! 
This  Lacryma  Christi  goes  to  the  heart, 
And  makes  the  olden  memories  start, 
Like  an  April  rain  on  last  year's  grass. 
How  the  days  go  !  how  the  hours  pass  ! 
Sometimes  like  a  thousand  years  it  seems, 
And  then  like  a  little  month  of  dreams, 
Since  the  Odes  of  Horace  you  taught  me  to  scan, 
And  helped  me  over  Homeric  crevasses, 
I,  stumbling  along  where  you  lightly  ran, 


2l6  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

By  the  shores  of  the  Poluphloisboio  Thalasses — 

Then  how  I  longed  to  be  a  man, 

Though  thrilling  with  all  a  boy's  joy  of  the  lasses, 

With  my  crown  just  even  with  your  shoulder, 

Looking  with  reverence  up  to  you — 

Longing  to  know  the  things  you  knew, 

You  six  feet  high  and  six  years  older, 

And  leaping  over  with  quiet  ease 

What  brought  me  staggering  on  to  my  knees. 

Then  I  remember  you  went  to  Rome, 

And  on  the  hem  of  your  garment  brought 

Odours  back  to  our  quiet  home, 

That  ravished  with  sweetness  my  boyish  thought. 

How  your  talk,  like  an  o'erbrimmed  cup, 

Ran  over  with  beauty,  my  heart  drank  up ; — 

Oranges,  olives — tinkling  guitars, 

Skies  all  throbbing  with  palpitant  stars, 

Moonlighted  terraces,  gardens,  and  groves, 

Bubbling  of  nightingales,  cooing  of  doves — 

Portia's,  Laura's,  and  Juliet's  loves, — 

Everything  lovely  I  seemed  to  see 

When  you  were  talking  of  Italy ; 


GIANNONE.  217 

There  you  almost  seemed  to  have  met 

Titian,  Raffaelle,  Tintoret, 

And  felt  the  grasp  of  Angelo's  hand, 

And  known  Da  Vinci,  so  calm  and  grand, 

And  walked  in  that  glorious  company, 

Whose  starry  names  are  above  us  seen 

Like  constellations  in  the  sky ; 

And  you  in  that  marble  world  had  been, 

Where  the  Grecian  and  Roman  gods  still  reign, 

And  lord  it  in  Art's  serene  domain ; 

And  behind  the  veil  of  talk  you  wove, 

Their  figures,  half-hidden,  seemed  to  move, 

And,  beckoning,  smile — to  pass  away 

At  a  single  touch  of  my  everyday. 


Ah  1  the  old  dreams — old  times — old  joys  — 

Buried  beyond  the  Present's  noise, 

How  still  they  sleep  beneath  time's  river ! 

All  of  their  sorrows  and  pains  forgot, 

All  of  their  beauty,  without  a  blot, 

Living  to  perfume  the  memory  for  ever. 


2l8  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Well !  once  you  filled  my  heart  with  wine, 
That  made  me  drunk  with  a  life  divine ; 
And  I  pour  into  yours,  as  a  recompense, 
Small  beer  of  advice  and  common  sense. 
You  were  a  poet  to  me  at  home, 
I'll  be  a  preacher  to  you  in  Rome. 

So,  to  come  out  of  this  dreamy  land, 

To  the  business  matter  of  fact  in  hand  ; 

You  know  that  fellow  that  just  went  out — 

But  pray,  do  you  know  his  business  here  ? — 

How  he  is  living — what  he's  about, 

Here  in  Rome  this  many  a  year? 

Somebody  introduced  him  ?     He  seems 

A  sort  of  a  pious  good-natured  fool,— 

A  convert,  they  told  you,  with  dreams  and  schemes 

For  the  Church's  universal  rule  ? 

All  very  well ;  but  what  are  his  means  ? 

Faith  is  lovely,  but  is  not  food ; — 

The  heart  has  its  pulse,  but  the  stomach  needs  beans, 

And  texts  don't  do  when  the  appetite's  rude. 

Man 's  but  a  poor  weak  creature  at  best, 


GIANNONE.  219 

Till  the  fiend  in  the  belly  is  lulled  to  rest. 

Throw  him  his  dose,  and  the  road  is  free 

For  meditation  and  sanctity. 

Now  look  me,  my  old  friend,  straight  in  the  eye — 

Unless  appearances  grossly  lie 

(I'm  as  sorry  to  say  it  as  you  to  hear, 

But  after  midnight  one  must  be  sincere), 

That  fellow 's  only  a  Government  Spy  ! 

Of  course  you're  surprised. — There's  nothing  on  earth 

So  base  in  your  eyes  as  a  Government  Spy: 

He's  half  an  Englishman,  too,  by  birth, 

So  the  thing  is  an  impossibility. 

Be  calm,  my  friend,  that's  the  way  it  looks 

To  us  poor  sinners ;  but  we  mistake  : 

The  law  is  different  in  his  looks ; — 

He  acts  for  the  Holy  Church's  sake  ; 

And  there's  nothing  so  dirty  you  may  not  do, 

With  absolution  and  blessing  too — 

Not  to  speak  of  the  money  part — 

If  the  Church's  good  you  have  at  heart. 

Holy  fictions  are  never  lies  ; 

'Tis  the  pious  purpose  purifies. 


220  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  pray  distinguish,  if  you  please, 

Those  who,  like  martyrs,  sacrifice 

Instincts  of  commonest  decencies, 

Seeking  to  win  an  immortal  prize 

From  merely  common  vulgar  spies. 

Spirito  Santo's  not  the  same 

As  Aqua  Vitae,  even  in  name. 

Spirito  Santo  mumbles  and  prays 

The  while  his  friend  to  death  he  betrays ; 

Aqua  Vitse  is  bought  and  sold, 

And  frankly  admits  that  he  works  for  gold. 

For,  "  Bah  ! "  he  says,  "  a  man  must  live, 

And  holes  there  are  in  every  one's  sieve. 

Nobody 's  pure  as  he  pretends, 

And  we  all  eat  dirt  for  our  selfish  ends. 

Pride  is  the  ruin  of  angel  and  man ; 

All  of  us  do  as  well  as  we  can ; 

You  at  my  dirty  business  scoff, 

But  silver  spoons  are  found  in  the  trough. 

Cheaper  than  you  I  am,  I'll  admit, 

Because  I  am  poorer,  not  worse  a  whit. 

A  beggar's  sole  chance  is  to  sleep  in  a  ditch ; 


GIANNONE.  221 

I'd  be  respectable  too — were  I  rich  ; 

But  calling  names  don't  break  any  bones, 

And  eggs  are  eggs,  though  you  call  them  stones." 

Talk  as  vulgar  as  this  your  friend 

Is  ready  as  you  to  reprehend  : 

For,  "  Ah  !  "  he  says,  "  we  cannot  refuse 

Our  crosses  and  burdens,  though  hard  to  bear : 

The  world 's  always  ready  to  sneer  and  abuse, 

But  we  must  answer  their  scoffs  with  a  prayer : 

Our  duty  is  not  for  us  to  choose. 

Fallible  reason  to  man  is  given ; 

The  Church  alone  has  the  keys  to  heaven ; 

She  only  knows  what  is  purest  and  best, 

And  her  servants  humbly  must  do  her  behest. 

She  doeth  a  mighty  good  with  a  fool, 

And,  using  me  as  a  worthless  tool, 

If  I  mistake,  and  stumble,  and  fall, 

She  shall  give  absolution  for  all." 

Now  I  may  be  deceived,  and  I  hope  I  am ; 
But  a  wolf  may  borrow  the  fleece  of  a  lamb, 


222  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  I  fear  your  friend  is  that  kind  of  sham. 

But  listen,  I  '11  spin  a  yarn  for  you, 

And  every  thread  of  it's  simply  true ; 

And  then  you  can  come  to  your  own  decision, 

If  I'm  right  or  wrong  in  my  suspicion. 

Tis  years,  as  you  know,  that  I've  lived  in  Rome, 

Till  now  it's  familiar  to  me  as  home ; 

And  'tis  years  ago  I  knew  Giannone, 

A  capital  fellow,  with  great  black  eyes, 

And  a  pleasant  smile  of  frank  surprise, 

And  as  gentle  a  pace  as  a  lady's  pony, 

Ready  to  follow  wherever  you  bid ; 

His  oaths  were,  "  Per  Bacco  !  "  and  "  Dio  mio  !  " 

And  "  Guardi ! "  he  cried  to  whatever  you  said ; 

But  though  not  overfreighted  with  esprit  or  brio, 

His  heart  was  better  by  far  than  his  head. 

His  education  was  rather  scanty ; 

But  what  on  earth  could  he  have  done 

With  an  education,  having  one, 

Unless  he  chose  for  the  scarlet  to  run, 

And  study  the  Fathers  and  lives  of  the  Santi  ? 


GIANNONE.  223 

Nevertheless,  I  know  he  had  read, 

Because  he  quoted  them,  Tasso  and  Dante ; 

And  so  often  he  recommended  the  prosy 

Promessi  Sposi,  I  must  suppose  he 

Had  also  achieved  that  tale  of  Manzoni ; 

And  besides  Monte  Christo  and  Uncle  Tom, 

And  the  history  of  Italy  and  Rome, 

(For  he  thoroughly  knew  how  Liberty's  foot 

Had  been  pinched,  and  maimed,  and  lamed  in  her 

boot), 

He  had  studied  with  zeal  the  book  of  the  Mass, 
And  Libretti  of  all  the  operas. 

This  little  learning  sufficed  for  Giannone, 
And,  sooth  to  say,  as  little  money ; 
Most  of  the  latter  he  spent  upon  dress, 
And  his  life  was  neither  more  nor  less 
Than  the  difficult  problem,  day  by  day, 
To  drive  the  cursed  time  away. 
So  having  nothing  himself  to  do, 
He  would  dawdle  away  your  morning  for  you. 
When  you  were  silent  to  drive  him  away, 


224  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

You  missed  your  man — he  would  stay  and  stay, 
With  the  same  old  phrases,  the  livelong  day. 
And  smiling  at  nothing,  and  so  content 
He  lounged  at  his  ease  on  your  sofa  there, 
Or  peeped  in  your  boxes  without  your  consent, 
Or  paced  through  the  room,  or,  pausing,  stood 
At  the  glass,  and  examined  himself  with  care, 
And  arranged  his  cravat,  or  mustache,  or  hair. 
And  so  pleased  if  you  threw  him  a  word  or  two, 
That  you  had  no  heart  to  be  downright  rude, 
And  say,  "  My  dear  fellow,  you  really  intrude  ; " 
Or  if  at  last  you  were  ready  to  swear, 
And  cried,  "  I  am  busy ;  I've  something  to  do  ! " 
Dull  as  a  stone  to  what  you  meant,  he 
Would  quietly  settle  himself  in  his  chair, 
And  smiling  answer,  with  fatuous  air, 
"Faccia,  senza  complimenti." 

His  room  was  an  armoury  of  swords — 
Some  blades  scribbled  with  Koran  words, 
Some  long  and  thin,  some  short  and  stout, 
Some  crooked,  some  straight,  some  curved  about. 


GIANNONE.  225 

He  had  ancient  guns  and  pistols  too, 

One-barrelled,  six-barrelled,  old  and  new, 

With  every  species  of  bore  and  stock, 

And  every  imaginable  lock  ; 

Daggers,  with  hilts  by  Cellini  made, 

Or  so  at  least  Giannone  said  ; 

A  savage  bludgeon  from  Southern  Seas, 

A  Turkish  scimitar's  gilded  blade, 

An  Indian  tomahawk  and  a  creese ; — 

Everything  murderous,  terrible,  wild, 

Pleased  this  creature,  so  gentle  and  mild. 

On  his  wall  was  a  head  of  Rachel,  of  course, 

Flanked  by  two  dogs,  a  stag,  and  a  horse 

From  Landseer's  brush,  and,  poised  on  her  neat  toe, 

The  delicate  sylph-like  shape  of  Cerito. 

On  his  hearth-rug  lay  a  lion's  skin, 

And  a  couple  of  dogs  made  a  terrible  din, 

Yelping  and  screaming  at  all  that  came  in. 

And  here  he  lay,  in  his  warlike  den, 

And  made  his  breakfast  on  "cafe  au  lait," 

The  very  idlest  of  idle  men, 

Smoking  and  gaping  the  morning  away, 


226  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  handling  his  pistols  now  and  then ; 
Shabby  enough  in  his  dressing-gown, 
With  a  soiled  shirt  on,  and  his  slippers  down, 
And  a  scarlet  fez  with  a  tassel  blue 
Perched  on  his  head,  not  over-new. 

But  as  soon  as  the  morning  he'd  worried  by, 
The  grub  would  change  to  a  butterfly- 
Burst  from  his  chrysalis,  and  appear 
Like  an  English  milord,  with  a  million  a-year ; 
And  when  his  elaborate  toilet  was  done, 
He  really  fancied  he  looked  like  one. 
Yet,  despite  his  short  bepocketed  coat, 
His  mutton-chop  whiskers,  and  well-shaved  throat, 
And  English  neck-tie,  and  laced-up  boot, 
He  still  was  Italian  from  head  to  foot. 

By  slowly  dressing,  an  hour  he  killed, 
And  then  the  serious  duty  fulfilled 
Of  showing  himself  all  up  and  down 
The  Corso's  length  to  the  lazy  town, 


GIANNONE. 

Bowing  and  lifting  his  glossy  hat, 

Or  pausing  to  air  his  innocent  chat 

At  the  carriage  of  Lady  this  or  that ; 

And  to  be  English  out  and  out, 

He  bought  a  dog-cart,  and  drove  about, 

Sitting  high,  with  majestic  pride, 

A  tiger  behind,  and  a  friend  at  his  side, 

And  a  boule-dogue  staring  between  his  knees, 

As  like  an  Englishman  as  two  peas. 

He  thought  so  at  least,  if  we  did  not ; 

So,  up  and  down,  at  a  solemn  trot, 

With  his  reins  held  tight,  as  if  his  steed 

Were  wild  with  spirit,  blood,  and  breed 

(Though,  if  the  simple  truth  be  told, 

It  was  eighteen  years  since  he  was  foaled), 

He  drove,  white-gloved,  his  reverend  beast, 

And  looked  like  an  English  Sir  Smith  at  least. 

At  night  he  went  to  his  opera-stall, 

When  there  was  neither  a  party  nor  ball ; 

And,  knowing  the  opera  all  by  rote, 

He  hummed  with  the  tenor,  soprano,  or  bass, 


228  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Keeping  ahead  by  a  bar  or  note, 
And  winning  by  half  a  length  the  race ; 
Or,  turning  around  with  an  earnest  face, 
He  studied  the  circle  from  ceiling  to  floor, 
With  a  cheap  lorgnette  he  had  hired  at  the  door ; 
Or,  wandering  about  from  box  to  box, 
With  his  white  cravat  and  his  oily  locks, 
He  played  with  some  lady's  fan  and  smiled, 
And  remarked  that  the  weather  was  cold  or  mild  ; 
Asked  when  she  would  receive  his  call — 
Hoped  it  would  be  a  gay  Carnival ; 
Said  Lady  X.  was  a  beautiful  woman- 
Heard  she  intended  to  give  a  ball ; 
Knew  that  young  American  there, 
The  pretty  girl  with  a  rose  in  her  hair, 
The  daughter,  they  say,  of  Barnum  the  showman— 
Would  have  a  million  dollars  for  dot ; 
And  half  he  sighed  at  his  different  lot. 
And  with  chat  like  this,  that  offended  no  man, 
Of  people  and  parties  and  weather  and  wealth, 
And  asking  of  everybody's  health, 
He  talked  like  any  agreeable  Roman. 


GIANNONE.  229 

Giannone  had  but  an  empty  head — 
But  then  the  worst  of  him  is  said  : 
A  better  heart,  or  a  readier  hand, 
To  help  in  whatever  was  plotted  and  planned, 
You  never  would  see  in  our  English  land. 
He  sang  at  our  parties — was  ready  to  hop 
In  polka,  mazurka,  schottische,  or  galopp ; 
Or  led  the  cotillon  till  all  of  the  girls 
Had  danced  in  the  morning,  and  danced  out  their  curls, 
And  the  tired  musicians  were  ready  to  drop. 
He  bargained  for  carriages,  horses,  and  grooms — 
Hired  music  for  balls,  sent  flowers  to  your  rooms — 
Arranged  all  the  picnics,  and  fluttered  about 
At  every  tea-drinking  party  or  rout- 
Talked  terrible  French,  and  at  times  even  spoke 
In  English,  said  "  Yas,  meese,"  and  thought  it  a  joke. 

A  "  guardia  nobile  "  was  Giannone, 
By  which  he  earned  sufficient  money 
For  his  gloves,  shirt-buttons,  boots,  and  hat, 
Though  it  was  scarcely  enough  for  that. 
And  splendid  he  was  on  a  gala-day, 


230  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

With  his  jingling  sword  and  scarlet  coat, 
And  his  long  jack-boots  and  helmet  gay, 
When  along  the  streets  he  used  to  trot ; 
And  great  good-luck  it  was  to  meet 
Giannone  when  you  wanted  a  seat 
To  hear  the  chant  of  the  Miserere, 
Or  to  get  on  the  balcony  high  and  airy, 
To  see  the  Papal  procession  go 
Over  St  Peter's  pavement  below, 
Streaming  along  in  its  gorgeous  show. 
And  then  at  Carnival  such  bouquets — 
Such  beautiful  bon-bons,  and  princely  ways — • 
Such  elegant  wavings  of  hat  and  hand — 
Such  smiles  that  no  one  could  withstand — 
Such  compliments,  as  made  ours  seem 
Like  pale  skim-milk  to  his  rich  cream. 
Giannone's  dream  was  always  this, 
To  find  some  beautiful  English  "  Miss," 
With  a  pretty  face  and  plenty  of  money, 
Who  should  fall  in  love  and  marry  Giannone. 

Poor  fellow  !  he  met  with  a  different  fate, 


GIANNONE.  231 

The  manner  of  which  I  will  now  relate, 
And  he  caught  it  just  through  imitation 
Of  some  of  the  ways  of  our  English  nation. 

Travel  as  much  as  we  English  will, 

Down  to  the  death  we  are  English  still — 

The  brandy  and  ale  that  we  have  at  home, 

And  the  sherry  and  port,  we  must  have  in  Rome. 

These  thin  Italian  wines,  we  think, 

Are  a  wishy-washy  kind  of  drink. 

Travel  we  must,  if  only  to  say 

We  are  better  in  England  every  way ; 

And  we  honestly  think,  when  we  get  abroad, 

That  England  alone  was  made  by  God, 

While  the  rest  of  the  earth,  though  nobly  planned, 

Was  finished  by  some  apprentice's  hand. 

All  that's  not  English  in  our  eyes 

Is  something  to  sneer  at,  and  jeer,  and  despise. 

As  for  a  foreigner,  it's  our  rule 

To  consider  him  either  a  knave  or  fool ; 

And  our  sense  of  a  kindness  by  one  bestowed, 

Weighs  on  our  minds  like  an  awkward  load, 


232  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Till  we've  asked  our  new  acquaintance  to  dine, 

And  paid  off  the  favour  with  beef  and  wine, 

And  introduced  him  to  all  our  set. 

So  it  happened  that  Hycombe  Wycombe  Brown, 

Of  the  Sussex  Wycombes,  a  man  about  town, 

The  nephew,  you  know,  of  Sir  Hycombe  Guy, 

Who  was  slain  at  the  storming  of  Alisalih, 

And  left  his  name  to  the  Gazette, 

And  put  our  Hycombe  quite  at  his  ease 

With  I  know  not  how  many  lacs  of  rupees 

(And  he  lacked  them  enough  till  then,  if  you  please). 

Well,  owing  Giannone  a  kind  of  debt 

For  buying  some  horses,  or  some  such  work, 

He  sent  him  a  card  of  defiance  one  day 

To  meet  him  at  point  of  the  knife — and  fork, 

And  settle  the  matter  without  delay. 

Giannone  accepted  of  course,  and  then, 

As  Wycombe's  Italian  was  rather  weak, 

He  asked  a  few  of  us  resident  men 

Who  knew  the  language,  as  seconds,  to  speak, 

And  among  them,  slim  and  sleek  and  sly, 

Was  your  pious  friend  with  his  balking  eye. 


GIANNONE.  233 

The  dinner  was  good,  and  all  were  merry, 
And  plenty  there  was  of  champagne  and  sherry ; 
And  the  toasts  were  brisk  and  the  wine  was  good, 
And  we  all  took  quite  as  much  as  we  should. 
Then  we  went  to  cards ;  and  depend  upon  it, 
Though  our  seasoned  brains  the  drink  withstood, 
There  was  a  bee  in  Giannone's  bonnet ; 
But  to  play  we  went — it  was  only  whist, 
But  a  little  mill  answers  for  little  grist, 
And  Giannone  was  soon  cleaned  out  of  all 
He  had  saved  for  bouquets  at  Carnival, 
And  of  course  he  felt  a  little  vext, 
Though  "  Pazienza  "  was  still  his  text. 

But  playing's  dry  work,  and,  I'm  sorry  to  say, 
Brandy  was  ordered  to  whet  the  play ; 
And  Giannone  kept  drinking,  in  imitation 
Of  this  happy  custom  of  our  nation, 
Till  at  last  his  tongue  had  lost  its  rein, 
And  the  fire  had  all  gone  into  his  brain. 

So  he  began  to  talk  quite  wild, 


234  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  spoke  all  his  thoughts  out  like  a  child  ; 
And  secrets  he  ought  to  have  kept  in  his  breast 
Plumped  out  of  his  mouth  like  young  birds  from  their 

nest; 

And  names  he  called,  and  his  voice  was  high 
As  he  talked  of  Italian  liberty  ! 
And  cursed  the  priests  as  the  root  of  all  evil, 
And  sent  the  Cardinals  all  to  the  devil ! 
And,  "Now,"  he  cried,  "they  have  it  their  way, 
But  every  dog  must  have  his  day ; 
And  the  time  will  come,  and  that  before  long, 
When  the  weak  will  rise  and  drive  over  the  strong, 
And  the  Tricolor  over  the  Vatican  fly, 
And  vivas  be  heard  for  liberty  ! 
No  more  King  Stork,  and  no  more  Pope  Log, 
Fouling  Italy's  boot  in  their  bog. 
Better  dig  with  the  bayonet's  point  our  graves, 
And  die  to  be  freemen,  than  live  to  be  slaves  ! 
Ah,  fight  we  will !     There  is  nothing  good 
Which  must  not  be  first  baptised  in  blood. 
Let  us  alone,  you  tricking  French, 
Let  us  alone,  you  Austrian  sneaks, 


GIANNONE.  235 

And  we  will  purge  the  Augean  stench 
That  in  Bomba's  and  Pius's  stable  reeks. 
We  ask  no  help  from  Gascon  or  Guelph, 
Italia  will  do  it  alone — by  herself." 

When  the  wine  is  in,  at  times  the  wit 

To  a  kindle  of  savage  flame  is  lit ; 

And  Giannone,  who  in  his  common  mood 

Thinks  more  of  gloves  and  perfumes  than  blood, 

Now  looked  and  talked  like  a  man  inspired, 

And  his  thoughts  blazed  up  as  if  they  were  fired, 

And  his  lamping  eyes  (as  calm  as  a  cow's 

In  his  everyday)  now  seemed  to  rouse 

And  burn  beneath  his  low  black  brows. 

We  looked  at  him  in  amazement  then, 

And  said,  "These  Italians  aufonda.it  men, 

Veneered  with  ignorance  though  they  be, 

And  cowed  and  imbruted  by  slavery ; 

Let  them  be  roused  by  war  or  love, 

They  are  fiercer  than  any  of  us,  by  Jove  ! " 

But  all  the  while  that  Giannone  let  fly 


236  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

These  arrows  of  his,  with  a  dead-cold  eye 
Your  friend  sat  playing,  and  now  and  then 
Gleamed  up  with  a  glance  as  sharp  as  a  pen 
That  seemed  to  write  down  every  word, 
And  then  looked  away  as  he  had  not  heard ; 
And  whenever  he  opened  his  lips,  he  said 
Something  about  the  game, — "  You've  played 
A  heart  to  my  club  : — we're  one  to  six ; 
Yours  are  the  honours  and  ours  the  tricks." 

We  were  all  Englishmen  there,  you  know, 
And  we  English  to  suspect  are  slow ; 
But  this  fellow's  air  and  sneaking  look 
Were  something  I  somehow  could  not  brook  ; 
So  I  watched  him  well,  and  at  last  said  I 
To  myself,  "  The  rascal  must  be  a  spy." 

The  thought  like  an  arrow  of  fate  struck  home— 
You  know  how  these  sudden  conclusions  come, 
Beyond  our  reason,  beyond  our  will, 
And,  lightening  down  with  electric  thrill, 
Reveal  in  one  clear  and  perfect  flash 


GIANNONE.  237 

A  world  that  before  was  doubt  and  gloom. 
So  "Zitto  !  Zitto  !  don't  be  so  rash, 
Giannone,"  I  cried;  "who  knows  what  ear 
May  be  listening  at  the  door  to  hear  ?  " 
And  then,  with  a  laugh,  and  looking  straight 
At  this  friend  of  yours,  with  his  face  sedate, 
I  added,  "Who  knows  but  there  may  be 
A  spy  even  here  in  this  company  ?  " 

If  I  doubted  before  the  trade  of  your  friend, 
My  doubts  in  a  moment  had  their  end ; 
For  a  glance  came  straight  up  into  my  eyes 
From  under  his  lids,  half  fear,  half  surprise, 
As  an  adder  on  which  you  chance  to  tread 
Starts  up,  and  darts  his  tongue  from  his  head, 
And  then  slips  swiftly  into  the  shade. 
So  turning  back  with  a  look  demure, 
And  a  deprecating,  pious  air, 
As  much  as  to  say,  "  We  must  not  care, 
If  our  purposes  are  but  high  and  pure, 
But  quell  our  passions  and  our  pride, 
And  bear  the  stigma  of  human  shame, 


238  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Knowing  the  means  are  justified 

By  the  noble  end," — he  slowly  said, 

Speaking,  of  course,  about  the  game, 

"The  trick  is  mine — 'twas  the  knave  I  played." 

Now  the  snakes  that  in  Italy's  bosom  lie 

Are  the  twins  Suspicion  and  Jealousy; 

And  the  eggs  from  which  they  creep  and  crawl 

Are  hatched  in  the  secret  confessional. 

Wherever  you  go  you  may  hear  them  hiss 

'Neath  the  covert  of  studied  hypocrisies. 

Truth  is  dangerous, — eyes  will  spy, 

And  ears  will  hear,  though  nobody 's  nigh  ; 

And  the  safest  thing  is  to  learn  to  lie. 

So  a  daily  distrust  is  engendered  and  bred, 

That  saps  one's  faith  in  the  friend  most  dear, 

And  creeps  to  sleep  in  the  marriage-bed, 

Till  the  dearest  and  nearest  you  learn  to  fear. 

The  Government  never  forgets  the  rule 
That  it  early  learns  in  the  Church's  school : 
Divide  and  conquer — that  is  the  way. 


GIANNONE.  239 

Threaten  the  weak,  the  frank  betray ; 

Cajole  and  promise — you  needn't  pay. 

Save  your  children  by  plying  your  rods, 

And  give  up  to  Caesar  the  things  that  are — God's. 

And  oh  !  my  children,  listen  and  hear — 
Whatever  the  Church  commands,  revere ; 
And  distrust  men's  words  with  a  holy  fear ; 
And  wherever  you  go,  and  whatever  you  see, 
Worship  only  the  powers  that  be, 
And  talk  no  nonsense  of  liberty. 

This  is  the  creed  that  Giannone  knew 
Better  by  far  than  I  or  you ; 
So  no  sooner  the  dread  word  "  Spy  "  I  spoke, 
Than  his  fine  discourse  like  a  pipe-stem  broke  ; 
But  looking  around  with  a  startled  stare, 
And  seeing  we  only  were  English  there, 
His  fear  dropped  off  like  a  snake's  old  skin, 
And  again  with  a  laugh  we  heard  him  begin. 

"Ah  !  "  he  cried,  "  there's  a  dirty  trick 
In  the  very  word  that  makes  me  sick ; 


240  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

You  English  don't  know  as  well  as  I 

The  slobber  and  slime  of  a  Government  Spy. 

"  Sir  Birichino,  permit  me  now 
To  introduce  him — a  friend  of  mine — 
Smooth,  pale,  bloodless  lips  and  brow — 
A  long  black  coat,  whose  rubbed  seams  shine- 
Spots  on  his  waistcoat  of  grease  and  wine — 
A  tri-cornered  hat  all  rusty  with  use — 
Long  black  coarse  stockings  and  buckled  shoes ; 
Ah  !  so  polite  with  his  bows  and  smiles, 
And  his  sickening  compliments  and  wiles, 
And  his  little  serpent  venomous  eyes, 
And  his  swollen  chops  of  beastly  size. 
Look  at  the  hypocrite  !     There  he  stands, 
With  the  unctuous  palms  of  his  dirty  hands 
Folded  together  breast-high,  while  he  sneaks 
Cringing  behind  them  wherever  he  speaks ; 
He  dares  not  look  you  straight  in  the  eyes, 
But,  sidling  and  simpering,  askance  alway, 
He  oils  you  over  with  wheedling  lies, 
As  the  boa  slimes  ere  he  swallows  his  prey. 


GIANNONE.  241 

Any  day  you  may  see  him,  he  haunts 
Half  the  cafes  and  restaurants  ; 
His  eye  on  his  paper  fixed, — his  ear 
Gleaning  the  talk  at  the  table  near. 
No  pride  in  him, — he  will  lick  your  shoes, 
Thanks  you  for  kicking  him — loves  abuse — 
Calls  it  the  natural  spirit  of  youth  • 
Anything's  sweet  to  him  but  truth. 
Drop  a  bad  word  -in  that  fellow's  way, 
He  picks  it  up  as  a  vulture  its  prey ; 
Hating  whatever  is  wholesome  and  good, 
And  living  only  on  carrion  food. 
Let  him  say  '  rose,'  it  will  stink  in  his  breath. 
Many  a  fellow  owes  him  his  death 
Just  for  a  strong  word,  spoken  may  be 
When  the  blood  was  hot  and  the  tongue  too  free. 
But  at  last  he  reckoned  without  his  host, 
And  in  throwing  his  dirty  dice  he  lost ; 
And  one  morning  they  found  him  taking  his  rest 
In  the  street,  with  a  dagger  stuck  in  his  breast. 
And  served  him  right,  say  you  and  I, 
It  was  only  too  easy  a  death  for  a  Spy." 
O 


242  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

At  this  jour  friend  threw  down  his  card, 

Saying,  "  You've  won  to-night,  'tis  true, 

But  to-morrow  I'll  have  my  revenge  on  you." 

And  though  these  words  to  his  friend  he  spoke, 

He  looked  at  Giannone  so  sharp  and  hard, 

With  such  a  sinister  evil  look, 

That  a  dark  suspicion  in  me  awoke. 

So  the  good  Giannone's  arm  I  took, 

And  crying,  "I'm  off — will  you  go  with  me?" 

Took  him  away  from  the  company ; 

And  after  a  mile  of  midnight  Rome, 

Left  him  safe  in  his  den  at  home. 

This,  you'll  say, -and  I'll  confess 
Was  merely  suspicion — no  more  nor  less ; 
Yet  I  could  not  get  it  out  of  my  head 
Long  after  I  was  warm  in  my  bed, 
That  something  might  happen  by-and-by 
To  prove  this  fellow  was  only  a  Spy. 

Two  days  after  I  went  to  see 

Whether  Giannone  would  walk  with  me — 


GIANNONE.  243 

Two  sharp  bell-pulls  at  his  door ; 

No  answer — gone  out ;  then  one  pull  more, 

And  "Ho,  Giannone,  Giannone,  'tis  I  !" 

Then  slipped  a  slide  back  cautiously 

From  a  little  grated  hole — "  Chi  e," 

From  a  woman's  voice — "  Che  vuole  lei?" 

And  a  shuffle  of  slippers  when  it  was  known 

Who  "/"  was,  and  that  I  was  alone. 

"And  where  is  the  Signor  Padrone?"  I  cried. 

"  Ah  ! "  with  a  sort  of  convulsive  groan, 

The  poor  old  servant,  sighing,  replied, 

"  Doesn't  your  Signoria  know — 

Such  times — such  times — oime  !  oibo  ! 

The  sbirri  came  here  yesterday, 

And  carried  the.  caro  padrone  away ; 

And  they've  rifled  his  desk  of  letters  and  all, 

And  taken  the  pistols  and  swords  from  the  wall, 

And  locked  up  the  room  with  a  great  red  seal 

Put  over  the  door ;  and  they  scared  me  so, 

With  threats  if  I  dared  in  the  chamber  to  go, 

That  I'm  all  of  a  tremble  from  head  to  heel ; 

And  when  the  bell  rang,  I  thought  it  must  be 


244  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Some  of  the  sbirri  come  back  for  me. 

What  it's  about  we  none  of  us  know, 

But  his  mother  and  sisters  are  in  such  a  fright, 

They've  been  weeping  and  praying  the  livelong  night. 

And  oh,  I  fear,  Signore  dear, 

There's  some  dreadful  political  business  here ; 

Ahime  !"  and  she  wiped  away  a  tear. 

The  servant's  story  was  all  too  true ; 

I  did,  of  course,  all  there  was  to  do, 

Begged,  bribed,  and  petitioned,  but  all  in  vain. 

From  that  night  I  never  saw  him  again. 

Worse,  neither  I  nor  his  family  knew, 

Nor  will  you,  unless  your  friend  explain, 

And  Giannone  himself  is  as  ignorant  too— 

What  was  his  crime — what  done — what  said, 

That  drew  this  punishment  down  on  his  head. 

This  one  fact  alone  we  know, 

That  since  the  speech  of  that  famous  night 

Giannone  has  vanished  out  of  sight, 

And  has  gone  to  pass  a  year  or  so, 

Longer  perhaps, — how  can  one  say? — 

In  a  building  where  the  Government  pay 


GJANNONE.  245 

His  lodging  and  board  in  the  kindest  way. 
The  lodging  perhaps  is  rather  bare, 
And  the  boarding  is  not  the  best  of  fare, 
And  the  company 's  queer  that 's  gathered  there — 
Made  up  of  fellows  with  speech  more  free 
Than  one  hears  in  the  best  society; 
And  some  of  whose  notions  are  rather  opaque 
Of  the  laws  that  govern  property ; 
So  that  sometimes  they  make  a  mistake 
In  that  little  distinction  'twixt  meuin  and  tuuni ; 
But  then,  as  the  Roman  laws  are  in  Latin, 
Which,  even  in  Rome,  one  is  not  pat  in, 
Farther,  I  mean,  than  an  Ave  or  Matin, 
'   It  takes  a  scholar  to  read  them  at  all ; 
And  supposing  one  has  read  thoroughly  through  'em, 
There's  a  slippery  space  'twixt  see  'em  and  do  'em, 
Where  Grotius  himself  might  trip  and  fall. 

Well, — here  in  this  cheerful  company, 
Where  the  cushions  are. not  of  silk  and  satin, 
And  on  fare  one  cannot  honestly  praise, 
Our  poor  Giannone  passes  his  days. 
It  is  not  precisely  the  place  to  grow  fat  in, 


246  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  the  library  's  wanting,  as  yet,  I  hear, 

And  I'm  told  that  the  view  from  the  window  is  drear, 

And  the  host  will  never  allow  a  fire, 

And,  besides,  has  ways  that  are  rather  queer 

Of  locking  the  doors,  which  interfere 

With  the  perfect  freedom  one  might  desire. 

But  beggars  cannot  be  choosers,  you  see, 

And  to  look  a  gift-horse  in  the  mouth  would  be 

Such  a  breach  of  manners — yet,  as  for  me, 

I  cannot  help  wishing  the  end  would  come 

Of  this  public  hospitality, 

And  that  poor  Giannone  was  free  to  go  home. 

But  when  will  that  be  ?  you  ask  me— Ah  ! 

That  is  the  question  ;  Chi  lo  sa  ? 

Whenever  it  pleases  the  powers,  that  be,— 

Next  month — next  year — next  century  ! 

Now,  there  are  the  facts  for  my  suspicion 
About  your  friend  and  his  pretty  profession  ; 
They're  as  plain  to  me  as  two  ones  in  addition, 
And  I  put  them  all  into  your  possession. 


I  L       C  U  R  A  T  O. 


{Dedicated  to  R.  S.] 


THERE'S  our  good  curate  coming  down  the  lane, 

Taking  his  evening  walk  as  he  is  wont : 

'Neath  the  dark  ilexes  he  pauses  now 

And  looks  across  the  fields ;  then  turning  round. 

As  Spitz  salutes  me  with  a  sharp  high  bark, 

Advising  him  a  stranger's  near,  he  stops, 

Nods,  makes  a  friendly  gesture,  and  then  waits — 

His  head  a  little  bent  aside,  one  hand 

Firm  on  his  cane,  the  other  on  his  hip — 

And  ere  I  speak  he  greets  me  cheerily. 

"  A  lovely  evening,  and  the  well-reaped  fields 
Have  given  abundant  harvest.     All  around 


248  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

They  tell  me  that  the  grain  is  large  and  full ; 
Peasant  and  landlord  both  of  them  content ; 
And  with  God's  blessing  we  shall  have,  they  say, 
An  ample  vintage  ;  scarcely  anywhere 
Are  traces  of  disease  among  the  grapes ; 
The  olives  promise  well,  too,  as  it  seems. 
Good  grain,  good  wine,  good  oil — thanks  be  to  God 
And  the  Madonna,  who  give  all  things  good, 
And  only  ask  from  us  a  thankful  heart ! 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  to  take  my  evening  walk 

Down  to  the  Borgo ;  for,  thank  heaven,  I  still 

Am  stout  and  strong  and  hearty,  as  you  see. 

I  still  can  walk  my  three  good  miles  as  well 

As  when  I  was  but  sixty,  though,  perhaps, 

A  little  slower  than  I  used  ;  but  then 

I've  turned  my  eightieth  year — I  have  indeed  ! 

Though  you  would  scarce  believe  it.     More  than  that, 

I've  never  lost  a  tooth — all  good  and  sound — 

Look  !  not  a  single  one  decayed  or  loose — 

As  good  to  crack  a  nut  as  e'er  they  were. 

They're  the  great  secret  of  my  health,  I  think ; 


IL  CURATO.  249 

Like  a  good  mill  they  grind  the  food  up  well, 
And  keep  the  stomach  and  digestion  good. 

"  Yes,  sir  !  I've  passed  the  allotted  term  of  man, 
Threescore-and-ten.     I'm  fourscore  years,  all  told  ; 
But,  the  Lord  help  us,  how  we  old  men  boast ! 
What  are  our  fourscore  years  or  fivescore  years 
(If  I  should  ever  reach  as  far  as  that) 
Compared  with  the  eternity  beyond  ? 
Yet  let  us  praise  God  for  the  good  he  gives ; 
All  are  not  well  and  strong  at  fourscore  years. 
There's  farmer  Lanti  with  but  threescore  years, 
See  how  he's  racked  with  his  rheumatic  pains ; 
He  scarce  can  crawl  along. 

Do  you  take  snuff? 

"  Yes,  sir !  'tis  fifty  years  since  first  I  came 
As  curate  to  this  village — fifty  years  ! 
When  I  look  back  it  scarce  seems  possible, 
And  yet  'tis  fifty  years  last  May  since  first 
I  came  to  live  in  yonder  little  house. 
You  see  its  red-tiled  roof  and  loggia  there 


250  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Close-barnacled  upon  the  church,  that  shows 

Its  belfry-tower  above  the  olive-trees. 

The  place  is  rude  and  rough,  but  there  I've  lived 

So  long,  I  would  not  change  it  if  I  could. 

Old  things  grow  dear  to  us  by  constant  use ; 

Habit  is  half  our  nature  ;  and  this  house 

Fits  all  my  uses,  answers  all  my  needs, 

Just  as  an  old  shoe  fits  one's  foot ;  and  there 

I  sleep  as  sound  with  its  bare  floor  and  walls 

As  if  its  bricks  were  spread  with  carpets  soft, 

And  all  the  ceilings  were  with  frescoes  gay. 

"  But  what  need  I  of  pictures  on  my  walls  ? 
Out  of  my  window  every  day  I  see 
Pictures  that  God  hath  painted,  better  far 
Than  Raffaelle  or  Razzi — these  great  slopes 
Covered  with  golden  grain  and  waving  vines 
And  rows  of  olives ;  and  then  far  away 
Dim  purple  mountains  where  cloud-shadows  drift 
Darkening  across  them ;  and  beyond,  the  sky, 
Where  morning  dawns  and  twilight  lingering  dies. 
And  then,  again,  above  my  humble  roof 


IL  CURATO.  251 

The  vast  night  is  as  deep  with  all  its  stars 
As  o'er  the  proudest  palace  of  the  king. 

"  So,  sir,  my  house  is  good  enough  for  me. 
I  have  been  happy  there  for  many  years, 
And  there's  no  better  riches  than  content ; 
There  I've  my  little  plot  of  flowers — for  flowers 
Are  God's  smile  on  the  earth, — I  could  not  do 
Without  my  flowers ;  and  there  I  train  my  vines, 
Just  for  amusement ;  for  the  people  here, 
Good,  honest  creatures,  do  not  let  me  want 
For  grapes  and  wine,  howe'er  the  season  be ; 
Then  I've  two  trees  of  apricots,  and  one 
Great  fig-tree,  that  beneath  my  window  struck 
Its  roots  into  a  rock-cleft  years  ago, 
And  of  itself,  without  my  care,  has  grown 
And  thriven,  till  now  it  thrusts  its  leaves  and  figs 
Into  my  very  room.     Sometimes  I  think 
This  was  a  gift  of  God  to  me  to  say, 
*  Behold  !  how  out  of  poverty's  scant  soil 
A  life  may  bravely  grow  and  bear  good  fruit, 
And  be  a  blessing  and  a  help.'     May  I 


252  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Be  like  this  fig-tree,  by  the  grace  of  God  ! 

I  have  one  peach-tree,  but  the  fruit  this  year 

Is  bitter,  tasting  somewhat  of  the  stone. 

Our  farmers  tell  me  theirs  are  all  the  same  \ 

I  think  they  may  have  suffered  from  the  drought, 

Or  from  that  hail-storm  in  the  early  spring. 

''Yes,  sir  !  'tis  fifty  years  in  this  old  house 
I've  lived  ;  and  all  these  years,  day  after  day, 
Have  run  as  even  as  a  ticking  clock, 
One  like  another,  summer,  winter,  spring ; 
And  ne'er  a  day  I've  failed  to  have  my  walk 
Down  to  the  Borgo,  spite  of  wind  and  rain. 
While  in  the  valley  low  the  white  mist  crawls, 
I'm  up  to  greet  the  morning's  earliest  gleam 
Above  the  hill-tops.     After  noon  I  take 
An  hour's  siesta  when  the  birds  are  still, 
And  the  cicale  stop,  and,  as  it  were, 
All  nature  falls  asleep.     As  twilight  comes, 
I  take  my  walk;  and,  ere  the  clock  strikes  ten, 
Lie  snugly  in  my  bed,  and  sleep  as  sound 
And  dreamless  sleep  as  when  I  was  a  boy. 


IL   CURATO.  253 

Why  should  I  not  ?     God  has  been  very  good, 

And  given  me  strength  and  health  !     Praise  be  to  Him  ! 

"  My  life  is  regular  and  temperate  ! 

Good  wine,  sir,  never  hurts  a  man ;  it  keeps 

The  heart  and  stomach  warm — that  is,  of  course, 

Unless  'tis  taken  in  excess  j  but  then, 

All  things  are  bad,  if  taken  in  excess. 

I  drink  my  wine  more  now  than  once  I  did ; 

For  as  old  age  comes  on  I  need  it  more — 

But  in  all  things  my  life  is  temperate. 

I  take  my  cup  of  coffee  when  I  rise ; 

I  dine  at  mid-day,  and  I  sup  at  seven ; 

I  sit  upon  my  loggia,  where  the  vines 

Spread  their  green  shadow  to  keep  off  the  sun, 

And  there  I  say  my  offices  and  prayers, 

And  in  my  well-thumbed  breviary  read, — 

Now  listening  the  birds  that  chirp  and  sing ; 

Now  reading  of  the  martyrdom  of  saints  ; 

Now  looking  at  the  peasant  in  the  fields ; 

Now  pondering  on  the  patriarchs  of  old. 

Then  there  are  daily  masses — sometimes  come 


254  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Baptisms,  burials,  marriages — and  so 
Life  slips  along  its  peaceable  routine. 

"  My  people  here  are  generous  and  kind ; 

Of  all  good  things  they  own  I  have  my  share, 

And  I,  in  turn,  do  what  I  can  to  help, 

And  smooth  away  their  cares,  compose  their  strifes, 

Assuage  their  sorrows.     By  kind  words  alone 

One  may  do  much,  with  the  Madonna's  aid. 

And  then,  in  my  small  way,  I  am  of  use 

To  cure  their  ailments  :  scarce  a  day  goes  by 

But  I  must,  like  a  doctor,  make  my  calls, 

And  see  my  patients.     After  fifty  years 

One  must  be  a  physician  or  a  fool. 

There's  a  poor  creature  now  in  yonder  house 

I've  spent  an  hour  beside  this  afternoon, 

Holding  her  hands  and  whispering  words  of  faith, 

And  saying  what  I  could  to  ease  her  soul. 

I  know  not  if  she  heard  me — haply  not, 

For  she  is  gone  almost  beyond  the  reach 

Of  human  language — far,  far  out  alone 

On  the  dim  road  we  all  must  tread  at  last. 


IL  CURATO.  255 

"  Antonio  Bucci  keeps  his  lands  here  well ! 

An  honest,  frugal,  and  industrious  man ; 

And  his  four  daughters, — healthy,  handsome  girls  : 

Vittoria  is  a  little  wryed,  perhaps, 

By  the  Count's  admiration — and,  in  truth, 

She  is  a  striking  creature ;  but  all  that, 

You  know,  is  nonsense,  and  I  told  her  so. 

Rosa  is  married,  as  you  know,  and  makes 

A  sturdy  wife.     She  has  one  little  child, 

With  cheeks  like  apples.     And  Regina,  too, 

And  Fanny — both  are  good  and  honest  girls. 

Per  Bacco  !  take  them  all  in  all,  I  think 

They're  better  for  Antonio  than  four  boys. 

I  see  them  in  the  early  mists  of  morn 

Going  a-field ;  and  listen  !  there  they  are, 

Down  in  the  vineyard,  singing,  as  they  tend 

Those  great  white  oxen  at  their  evening  feed. 

"  Well,  Spitz,  we  must  be  going  now,  or  else 
Old  Nanna  '11  scold  us  both  for  being  late. 
Stop  barking  !     Better  manners,  sir,  I  say  ! 
He's  young,  you  see ;  the  old  one  died  last  spring, 


256  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  this  one  's  over  frisky  for  my  age 

(You  are — you  are  !  you  know  you  are,  you  scamp  !) 

But  with  his  foolishness  he  makes  me  smile. 

As  he  grows  older  he'll  grow  more  discreet. 

('Tis  time  to  have  your  supper?     So  it  is  !) 

And  for  mine,  too,  I  think — and  so,  good  night!" 

So  the  old  curate  lifts  his  hat  and  smiles, 

And  shakes  his  cane  at  Spitz,  and  walks  away, 

A  little  stiff  with  age,  but  strong  and  hale, 

While  Spitz  whirls  round  and  round  before  his  path, 

With  volleys  of  sharp  barks,  as  on  they  go. 

And  so  Good  night  !  you  good  old  man, — good  night ! 

With  your  child's  heart,  despite  your  eighty  years. 

I  do  not  ask  or  care  what  is  your  creed — 

Your  heart  is  simple,  honest,  without  guile, 

Large  in  its  open  charity,  and  prompt 

To  help  your  fellow-men, — on  such  as  you, 

Whatever  be  your  creed,  God's  blessing  lies. 


Z  I  A      N  I  C  A. 


OLD  Zia  Nica,  she  had  looked  through  life — 
Its  deeps  and  shoals  had  sounded — felt  the  strife 
Of  storms — sailed  round  its  capes  and  reefs — and  known 
The  absolute  whole  of  passion's  burning  zone. 
Queen  of  the  osteria  there  she  sat, 
Half  listening,  while  around  her  buzzed  its  chat ; 
Her  red:rimraed  eyes,  all  bloodshot  from  carouse, 
Half  shut,  and  peering  out  'neath  shaggy  brows ; 
And  now  and  then  a  grim  sardonic  smile 
Quivering  at  some  coarse  speech  across  her  lips, 
As  up  she  sharply  glanced,  and  ceased  the  while 
To  drum  the  table  with  her  finger-tips. 
All  taste  for  gracious  things  was  gone ;  her  tongue 
R 


258  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Craved  the  sharp  whet  of  savage  words,  the  zest 
Of  some  lewd  speech,  some  bitter,  biting  jest, 
That  like  raw  brandy  for  a  moment  stung. 
Thus  stern  she  sat,  amid  her  compeers  there, 
Over  her  sunken  cheeks  her  coarse  grey  hair 
Straggling,  a  wicked  sharpness  in  her  look, 
Like  some  spent  fury.     Now  and  then  she  struck 
Sharply  her  clenched  hand  on  the  board,  until 
The  glasses  rang,  and  every  man  was  still 
To  listen,  as  with  voice  high,  harsh,  and  shrill, 
She  shrieked  some  savage  taunt,  or  jest  so  lewd, 
It  seemed  to  prick  the  skin  and  draw  the  blood ; 
And  then  with  coarse  laugh  opening  wide  her  jaws 
(Where,  either  side  the  mouth's  red-roofed  ravine, 
Two  yellow  teeth,  like  ruined  piers,  were  seen), 
She  paused,  expectant  of  the  fierce  applause. 
"  Bravo,  per  Bacco  !  Zia  Nica's  shot 
Is  in  the  very  bull's-eye — is  it  not  ?  " 

If  beauty,  maidenly  reserve,  and  grace, 
Once,  as  they  say,  in  earlier,  happier  hours, 
Grassed  softly  over  this  volcano's  vent, 


ZIA   NICA.  259 

The  time  has  long  gone  by  of  grass  or  flowers ; 
Ay,  and  the  passionate  and  flaming  days, 
They,  too,  have  passed,  and  all  their  fury  spent, 
And  left  but  ashes,  scoriae,  blasted  stones, 
Cast  forth  by  passion,  the  dead  wreck  of  sin. 
Yet  impotent,  low  growls,  and  rumbling  moans, 
And  sharp  convulsive  throes,  still  stir  within ; 
Still  the  old  crater,  burnt  out  at  its  heart, 
At  times  a  savage  tongue  of  flame  will  dart ; 
And  Zio  Tonio  trembles  even  now, 
Despite  his  coward  smile,  so  faint  and  grim — 
Trembles,  as  down  she  shuts  her  dinted  brow, 
And  her  eyes,  closing,  take  slow  aim  at  him. 

And  yet  not  wholly  vanished  is  all  grace  ; 
One  vein  of  love  runs  like  a  singing  stream 
Through  all  this  scoriae ;  and  across  her  face, 
Praise  but  her  grandchild,  shoots  a  sudden  gleam, 
As  she  strokes  down  his  curled  and  tangled  hair. 
Touch  him  for  harm, — the  tiger  from  her  lair 
Is  not  more  swift  to  spring,  more  wild  to  scream, 
More  fierce  with  hand  and  tongue  to  rend  and  tear. 
Come,  Zia  Nica,  then,  a  brimming  glass  ! 


260  GRAFFITI  D'lTALIA. 

Nay,  sit  not  thus,  your  hands  upon  your  knees, 

But  drain  its  red  blood  down  unto  the  lees. 

Yours  is  no  heart  to  strike  to  an  "  alas  "  ; — 

Up  !  while  the  mandoline  and  thrummed  guitar 

Ring  through  the  osteria's  vaulted  wall, 

And  all  our  glasses  jar  and  voices  call — 

Hark  to  the  echoes  of  the  days  afar ! 

Hands  on  your  broad  hips, — shuffle  down  the  floor 

A  tottering  salterello, — pipe  once  more 

That  old  cracked  voice, — and  while  the  noisy  jar 

Of  Passatello  stops,  and  we  who  quaff 

The  rich  red  wine  of  Tonio's  choicest  bin, 

Strike  down  our  tumblers, — shriek  out  shrill  and  long 

The  quavering  fragment  of  that  wicked  song, 

And  let  us  hear  your  wild  defiant  laugh 

Closing  the  final  strophe  of  its  sin. 

Then  shall  the  black  vault  echo  to  the  din, 

The  benches  leap,  the  lumbering  tables  spring, 

The  brass  lucerna's  rattling  pendants  swing, 

The  hanging  lamp  in  quivering  circles  shake, 

And  o'er  the  ceiling  whirl  its  gleaming  ring, 

Ay,  and  the  framed  Madonna,  shuddering,  quake. 


ZIA   NICA.  26l 

Up,  Zia  Nica  !  hear  you  not  the  strain  ? 
Once  you  could  dance.      Old  Tonio,  stand  aside. 
Push  back  the  benches  !  make  the  circle  wide  ! 
The  music  rouses  the  old  strength  again. 
Ay !  when  this  Tonio  took  her  for  his  bride, 
Was  there,  of  all  the  maids  on  hill  or  plain, 
One  that  with  this  fierce  maenad  could  compare  ? 
More  firm  of  waist,  with  such  black  eyes  and  hair  ? 

Stand  back  !  there's  danger  in  her  eyes ;  for  lo  ! 
Upstarting  with  a  sharp  shriek  from  her  seat, 
With  arms  flung  wide,  and  heavy  shuffling  feet, 
Around  the  cleared  space  see  her  circling  go. 
Her  trembling  hands  now  twitching  at  her  gown, 
Now  snapped  aloft  in  air, — till,  flushed  with  heat, 
All  reeking,  panting,  shaking,  in  her  seat, 
With  open  mouth,  she  drops,  exhausted,  down, 
Crying—"  Old  Zia  Nica's  not  dead  yet !  " 
To  Zia  Nica,  then,  your  glasses  drain  ! 
And  let  the  low  room  echo  to  the  cry — 
Eviva  !  and  eviva  !  and  again 
Eviva  ! — may  our  Zia  never  die  i 


L'ABBATE. 


WERE  it  not  for  that  singular  smell 

That  seems  to  the  genus  priest  to  belong, 
Where  snuff  and  incense  are  mingled  well 

With  a  natural  odour  quite  as  strong  : 
Were  it  not  for  those  little  ways 

Of  clasped  and  deprecating  hands ; 
And  of  raising  and  lowering  his  eyes  always 

As  if  he  only  waited  commands — 

Little  there  is  in  him  of  the  priest, 
With  only  the  slightest  touch  of  cant, 

With  a  simple,  guileless  heart  in  his  breast, 
And  a  mind  as  honest  as  ignorant. 


L'ABBATE.  263 

Half  a  child  and  half  a  man, 

Ripe  in  the  Fathers  and  green  in  thought, 
In  his  little  circle  of  half  a  span 

He  thinks  he  thinks  what  he  was  taught. 

His  duty  he  does  to  the  scruple's  weight ; 

Recites  his  prayers,  and  mumbles  his  mass, 
And  without  his  litanies,  early  and  late, 

Never  permits  a  day  to  pass. 
Look  at  him  there  in  the  garden-plots 

Repeating  his  office,  as  to  and  fro 
He  paces  around  the  orange-pots, 

Looking  about  while  his  quick  lips  go. 

His  simple  pleasure  in  simple  things, 

His  willing  spirit  that  never  tires, 
His  trivial  jokes  and  wonderings, 

His  peaceful  temper  that  never  fires, 
His  joy  over  trifles  of  every  day, 

The  feeble  poems  he  loves  to  quote, — 
Are  just  like  a  child,  with  his  heart  in  his  play, 

While  his  duty  and  lessons  are  drill  and  rote. 


264  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

What  life  means  he  does  not  think  ; 

Reason  and  thought  he  has  been  told 
Only  lead  to  a  perilous  brink, 

Away  from  Christ  and  the  Church's  fold. 
Therefore  he  humbly  and  blindly  obeys  ; 

Does  what  he's  ordered  and  reasons  not ; 
Performs  his  prayers,  and  thinks  he  prays, 

And  asks  not  how,  or  why,  or  what. 

Happy  in  this,  why  stir  his  mind, 

Stagnant  in  thought  although  it  be  ? 
Leave  him  alone — he  is  gentle  and  kind, 

And  blest  with  a  child's  simplicity. 
Thinking  would  only  give  him  unrest, 

Struggle,  and  toil,  and  inward  strain  ; 
His  heart  is  right  in  his  thoughtless  breast, 

Why  should  one  wish  to  torment  his  brain  ? 

Yet  out  of  pastime  one  evil  day 

I  unfolded  to  him  Pythagoras'  plan- 
How  step  by  step  the  soul  made  its  way 
From  sea-anemone  up  to  man, — 


L'ABBATE.  265 

How  onward  to  higher  grades  it  went, 
If  its  human  life  had  been  fair  and  pure  ; 

Or  if  not,  to  the  lower  scale  was  sent, 
Again  to  ascend  to  man,  and  endure. 

And  so  the  soul  had  gleams  of  the  past, 

And  felt  in  itself  dim  sympathies 
With  nature,  that  ended  in  us  at  last, 

And  each  of  whose  forms  within  us  lies. 
He  smiled  at  first,  and  then  by  degrees 

Grew  silent  and  sad,  and  confessed  'twas  true, 
But  with  spirit  so  pained  and  ill  at  ease, 

That  my  foolish  work  I  strove  to  undo. 

This  thinking's  the  spawn  of  Satan,  I  said, 

That  tempts  us  into  the  sea  of  doubt ; 
And  Satan  has  endless  snares  to  spread, 

If  once  with  our  reason  we  venture  out. 
Here  you  are  in  your  Church  like  a  port, 

Anchored  secure,  where  never  a  gale 
Can  break  your  moorings, — nor  even  in  sport 

Should  you  weigh  your  anchor  or  spread  your  sail. 


266  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

So  I  got  him  back  to  his  anchor  again, 

And  there  in  the  stagnant  harbour  he  lies ; 
And  he  looks  upon  me  with  a  sense  of  pain 

As  a  wild  freebooter ;  for  to  his  eyes 
Free  thinking,  free  sailing  seems  to  be, 

A  sort  of  a  godless,  dangerous  thing, 
Like  a  pirate's  life  on  a  stormy  sea — 

And  sure  at  the  last  damnation  to  bring. 


NINA. 


{Dedicated  to  M.  E.  B.} 


How  bright,  how  glad,  how  gay, 

To  thee,  O  Nina,  dear ! 
Day  after  day  slipped  smooth  away, 

Through  childhood's  simple  joy  and  simple  fear. 

Strained  by  no  adverse  force, 
Life,  like  a  clear  and  placid  stream 

In  some  delightful  clime, 
Bearing  the  sky  within  it  like  a  dream, 

And  all  the  fair  reflected  shapes  of  time, 

Flowed  on  its  gentle  course  ! 
How  many  a  time,  oppressed  with  gloom, 
While  sitting  in  my  lonely  room, 


268  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  toiling  at  my  task, 
Neglected,  humble,  wan  with  care, 
Aspiring,  hoping,  though  I  did  not  dare 

Fate's  laurelled  prize  to  ask, 
Have  I  been  gladdened  by  that  voice  of  thine, 
Singing,  perhaps,  some  trivial  song  of  mine, 
And  listened,  and  looked  up,  and  felt  a  thrill 
Come  o'er  my  heart — as  over  waters  still 
A  light  breeze  flutters — and  almost  forgot, 
Hearing  that  happy  voice,  my  wretched  lot. 

Years  went ;  the  round  and  rosy  face 

Grew  fairer,  paler ;  and  as  Childhood  went, 
Came  Maidenhood's  more  tender  grace 

And  thoughtful  sentiment : 
And  when  the  first  soft  airs  of  Spring 
Wooed  the  flowers  forth,  and  with  a  subtle  fire 
Stirred  in  the  human  heart  a  vague  desire 

For  what  life  cannot  bring, 
Often  I  watched  you  moving  to  and  fro 
The  alleys  of  the  garden-plot  below, 
Your  white  gown  'mid  the  roses  fluttering ; 


NINA.  269 

And  now  you  paused  to  train  some  wandering  spray 

With  almost  a  caress, 
And  now  you  plucked  some  last  year's  leaf  away 

That  marred  its  perfectness ; 
Or  where  the  lilies  of  the  valley  grew, 
Like  them  as  modest,  sweet,  and  pale  of  hue, 
You  bent  to  breathe  their  odour,  or  to  give — 
Almost  it  seemed  as  if  they  must  receive 
From  you  a  sweeter  odour  than  they  knew. 


Sometimes,  as  lingering  there  you  walked  along, 

Humming  half  consciously  some  little  song, 

You  paused,  looked  up,  and  saw  me,  mute  and  still, 

Gazing  upon  you  from  my  window-sill ; 

And  with  a  voice,  so  glad  and  clear, 

It  rang  like  music  on  my  ear — 

You  cried,  "Antonio  !  look,  Antonio,  dear!" 

Ah,  happy  memories  ! 

They  bring  the  burning  tears  into  my  eyes. 

Oh,  speak  again,  and  say,  "Antonio,  dear !" 

Ah,  vanished  voice  !  call  to  me  once  again  ! 


270  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Never  !  ah,  never  !  in  this  world  of  pain, 
No  tone  like  thine  my  heart  will  ever  thrill. 

Oft  when  the  spring  its  perfumed  violets  strewed 
Along  the  greensward,  'neath  the  ilex  wood 
I  strolled  with  you,  how  many  an  afternoon, 
In  the  perfection  of  the  early  June — 
Not  owning  to  myself,  as  there  we  roved, 
Not  knowing,  truly  knowing,  that  I  loved  ; 
And  all  the  while  your  pure  young  thought 
So  deeply  in  my  inmost  being  wrought, 
That  it  became  a  happy  part  of  me— 
And  as  it  were  a  sweet  necessity — 
From  which  I  wanted  never  to  be  free. 

Yet  never  spoke  I  of  my  love ;  so  slow, 
So  gently  in  my  heart  it  grew, 

That  when  it  fully  came  I  scarcely  know- 
Not  bursting  into  rapture  strange  and  new, 

Splendour  and  perfume  on  the  air  to  pour, 

That  from  the  sense  was  hidden  in  the  bud 
A  little  hour  before ; 


NINA.  2/1 

But  slowly  rising,  like  a  tide  to  brim 

My  being,  widening  ever  more  and  more, 
And  deepening  all  my  central  life  with  dim 

Unconscious  fulness,  till  its  joy  ran  o'er. 
Then,  when  I  knew  at  last, 
How  very  dear  thou  wast, 
I  dared  not  trust  my  tongue  to  ease  the  load 

Of  love  that  lay  upon  my  heart, 

But  lonely,  silent,  and  apart, 
Of  you  I  dreamed — for  you  I  hourly  prayed — 
Glad  of  my  secret  love,  but  how  afraid  ! 

'Twas  but  a  child's  affection  that  you  bore 
For  me — a  placid  feeling — nothing  more. 
Across  your  heart,  so  gentle  and  serene, 
The  burning  thrill  of  love  had  never  been  ; 
And  childhood  scarce  had  given  place 
To  maidenhood's  more  subtle  grace, 

When  Death,  who  darkly  walks  along 

Amid  the  gentle  and  the  strong, 
When  least  we  fear  to  see  his  face, 
Paused,  gazed  at  you,  and  took  you  for  his  own, 


2/2  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  all  the  joy  from  out  my  life  had  flown- 
And  I  was  left  of  all  bereft, 
Too  utterly  alone. 

Will  earth  again  renew 
That  simple  love  for  me  ? — ah,  no  ! 
Spring  comes  again — again  the  roses  blow- 
But  you — ah,  me  ! — not  you  ! 
Oh,  Nina  !  in  your  grassy  grave 

I  buried  what  can  never  grow  again  : 
Life  but  one  perfect  joy  can  have — 
That  in  thy  grave  is  lain  ! 


G  I   U  L  I  E  T  T  A. 


[Dedicated  to  G.  W.  C] 


AH,  how  still  the  moonbeams  lie 

On  the  dreaming  meadows  ! 
How  the  fire-flies  silently 

Lighten  through  the  shadows  ! 
All  the  cypress  avenue 
Waves  its  tops  against  the  blue, 
As  the  wind  slides  whispering  through- 
He  is  late  in  coming  ! 

There's  the  nightingale  again  ! 

He  alone  is  waking ; 
Is  it  joy  or  is  it  pain 

That  his  heart  is  breaking  ? 


274  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Bliss  intense  or  pain  divine  ? 
Both  of  them,  oh  Love,  are  thine  ! 
And  this  heart,  this  heart  of  mine, 
With  them  both  is  thrilling. 

From  the  deep  dark  orange-grove 

Odorous  airs  are  streaming, 
Till  my  thoughts  are  faint  with  love- 
Faint  with  blissful  dreaming. 
Through  the  slopes  of  dewy  dells 
Crickets  shake  their  tiny  bells, 
And  the  sky's  deep  bosom  swells 
With  an  infinite  yearning. 

On  my  heart  the  silent  weight 
Of  this  beauty  presses ; 

Midnight,  like  a  solemn  Fate, 
Saddens  while  it  blesses. 

All  alone  I  cannot  bear 

This  still  night  and  odorous  air  ; 

Dearest,  come,  its  bliss  to  share, 
Or  I  die  with  longing. 


GIULIETTA.  275 

I  have  listened  at  the  doors, 

All  are  calmly  sleeping ; 
I  alone  for  hours  and  hours 

In  the  dark  am  weeping. 
Only  weeping  can  express 
The  mysterious  deep  excess 
Of  my  very  happiness, 

Therefore  I  am  weeping. 

Like  a  fountain  running  o'er 

With  its  too  great  fulness, 
Like  a  lightning-shivered  shower 

For  the  fierce  noon's  coolness, 
Like  an  over-blossomed  tree, 
That  the  breeze  shakes  tenderly, 
Love's  too  much  falls  off  from  me 
In  these  tears  of  gladness. 

Ah,  beloved  !  there  you  are  ! 

I  once  more  am  near  you  ; 
Walk  not  on  the  gravel  there, 

Somebody  may  hear  you. 


2/6  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Step  upon  the  noiseless  grass ; 
Oh  !  if  they  should  hear  you  pass 
We  are  lost,  alas  !  alas  ! 
We  are  lost  for  ever ! 

Look  !  the  laurels  in  the  light 

Seem  with  eyes  to  glisten ; 
All  things  peep  and  peer — and  night 

Holds  its  breath  to  listen. 
Deeper  in  the  shadow  move, 
For  the  moon  looks  out  above, 
I  am  coming  to  you,  love, 
In  a  moment  coming. 


IN      THE      RAIN. 


I  STAND  in  the  cold  grey  weather, 

In  the  white  and  silvery  rain ; 
The  great  trees  huddle  together, 

And  sway  with  the  windy  strain. 
I  dream  of  the  purple  glory 

Of  the  roseate  mountain-height, 
And  the  sweet-to-remember  story 

Of  a  distant  and  dear  delight. 

The  rain  keeps  constantly  raining, 

And  the  sky  is  cold  and  grey, 
And  the  wind  in  the  trees  keeps  complaining, 

That  summer  has  passed  away ; — 


2/8  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

But  the  grey  and  the  cold  are  haunted 
By  a  beauty  akin  to  pain, — 

By  the  sense  of  a  something  wanted, 
That  never  will  come  again. 


THE      LILAC. 


THE  lilac-bush  is  in  blossom, 

It  hath  the  balmy  smell 
Of  that  dear  delicious  summer, 

Of  love's  first  miracle. 
I  feel,  as  I  breathe  its  fragrance, 

The  old  enchanting  pain, 
The  sweet  insatiate  longing, 

Thrill  through  my  heart  and  brain. 

Oh  youth  !  youth  !  youth  !  where  are  you  ? 

I  call,  but  you  come  no  more  ! 
I  weep,  but  afar  you  mock  me  ! 

And  you  laugh  when  I  implore  ! 


28O  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Yet  you  hide  within  the  lilac, 

With  an  odour  you  shoot  me  through, 

And  a  whiff  of  the  old  you  fling  me 
That  is  better  than  all  the  new. 

How  proudly  we  struggled  to  leave  you, 

When  you  implored  us  to  stay  ! 
How  bitterly  grieve  to  regain  you 

When  once  you  have  fled  away. 
Too  late,  too  late,  we  love  you, 

And  long  for  your  laugh  of  surprise, 
And  we  only  truly  can  see  you 

With  manhood's  tears  in  our  eyes. 

You  flung  your  arms  around  me 

And  pelted  me  with  flowers ; 
You  clung  to  me  as  we  wandered 

Among  those  lilac  bowers. 
You  kissed  me,  half  laughing,  half  crying, 

Beseeching  me  to  remain, 
But  impatient  I  shook  you  from  me — 

And  you  never  will  come  again. 


THE   LILAC.  28l 

Your  lilacs  are  ever  blooming 

In  happy  gardens  of  play, 
But  they  love  you  not  who  have  you, 

And  fain  would  they  flee  away. 
They  long  for  the  fields  of  freedom 

Where  the  fruit  of  ambition  grows, 
And  for  manhood's  heights,  that  are  lifted 

Against  a  sky  of  rose. 


T  H  E      G  A  U  C  H  O. 


OVER  the  lonely,  desolate  Pampas, 

A  sinewy  horse  my  flying  throne, 
Coiled  at  my  saddle-bow  the  lasso, 

In  my  belt  a  knife  that  reaches  the  bone. 
I  am  the  Gaucho, — riding,  hiding, 

Whirling  the  bolas,  wielding  the  knife, 
Over  the  prairies  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
Let  him  who  would  take  me  look  out  for  his  life  ! 

Ne'er  a  tide  but  the  fleeting  seasons 
Sweeps  o'er  the  inland  sea  of  grass  ; 

Roaring  herds,  like  clouds  of  thunder, 
Over  its  lonely  levels  pass. 


THE   GAUCHO.  283 

Jaguars  yell ;  and,  striding,  hiding, 

Ostriches  rush — for  they  fear  the  knife — 
Over  the  prairies  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
Let  him  who  pursues  me  look  out  for  his  life  ! 

With  my  tongues  of  cows  and  gourd  of  yerba, 
And  the  cigaritos  smoke  on  my  hearth, 

I  laugh  at  your  houses ;  my  saddle 's  my  pillow, 
My  chamber  a  thousand  miles  of  earth. 

With  the  stars  above  me  gliding,  hiding, 
I  lie  at  ease,  as  I  grasp  my  knife. 

On  the  wide  prairies  of  Buenos  Ayres, 

Let  him  who  awakes  me  look  out  for  his  life  ! 

Look  !  in  the  distance  a  cloud  is  rising ; 

In  with  the  spur !  fling  loose  the  rein  ! 
Sharp  sings  the  lasso's  loop  as  it  whizzes,— 

And  the  bellowing  bull  drops  on  the  plain. 
Out  from  my  saddle  sliding,  gliding, 

Deep  in  his  throat  my  flashing  knife. 
O'er  the  wide  prairies  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
Let  him  who  pursues  me  look  out  for  his  life  ! 


284  GRAFFITI   D'lTALlA. 

Keep  your  dragoons  at  home — I  warn  you  ! 

For  the  Gaucho  writes  his  laws  in  blood ; 
The  bolas  are  ready ;  coiled  is  the  lasso ; 

And  this  white  dust  can  be  red  mud. 
You  for  the  crows,  and,  riding,  riding, 

I  for  the  Andes  with  my  knife. 
Over  the  prairies  of  Buenos  Ayres, 
Let  him  who  would  take  me  look  out  for  his  life  ! 


SPRING. 


DOVES  on  the  sunny  eaves  are  cooing, 
The  chip-bird  trills  from  the  apple-tree, 

Blossoms  are  bursting,  and  leaves  renewing, 
And  the  crocus  darts  up,  the  Spring  to  see. 

Spring  has  come  with  a  smile  of  blessing, 
Kissing  the  earth  with  her  soft  warm  breath 

Till  it  blushes  in  flowers  at  her  gentle  caressing, 
And  wakes  from  the  winter's  dream  of  death. 

Spring  has  come  !  the  rills  as  they  glisten 
Sing  to  the  pebbles  and  greening  grass, 


286  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Under  the  sward  the  violets  listen, 

And  dream  of  the  sky  as  they  hear  her  pass. 

Coyest  of  roses  feel  her  coming, 

Swelling  their  buds  with  a  promise  to  her, 

And  the  wild  bee  hears  her,  around  them  humming, 
And  booms  about  with  a  joyous  stir. 

Oaks,  that  the  bark  of  a  century  covers, 
Feel  ye  the  spell  as  ye  groan  and  sigh  ? 

Say,  does  the  spirit  that  round  you  hovers 
Whisper  of  youth  and  love  gone  by? 

Windows  are  open ;  the  pensive  maiden 
Leans  o'er  the  sill  with  a  wistful  sigh, — 

Her  heart  with  tender  longings  o'erladen, 
And  a  happy  sadness  she  knows  not  why. 

For  we  and  the  trees  are  brothers  in  nature ; 

We  feel  in  our  veins  the  season's  thrill, 
In  hopes,  that  reach  to  a  higher  stature, 

In  blind  dim  longings  beyond  our  will. 


SPRING.  287 

Whence  dost  thou  come,  oh  joyous  spirit? 

From  realms  beyond  this  human  ken, 
To  paint  with  beauty  the  earth  we  inherit, 

And  soften  to  love  the  hearts  of  men  ? 

Dear  angel !  that  blowest  with  breath  of  gladness 
The  trump  to  waken  the  year  in  its  grave, 

Shall  we  not  hear  after  death's  deep  sadness 
A  voice  as  tender  to  gladden  and  save  ? 

Dost  thou  not  sing  a  constant  promise, 
That  joy  shall  follow  that  other  voice, — 

That  nothing  of  good  shall  be  taken  from  us, 
But  all  who  hear  it  shall  rise  to  rejoice? 


AUTUMN. 


{Dedicated  to  J.  R.  L.~] 


THESE  Autumn  winds  are  growing  chill, 
They  wander  wailing  o'er  the  hill, 
And  at  the  close-shut  window  cry 
That  summer  opened  lovingly; 
But  we  can  let  them  in  no  more, 
And  all  the  eve  my  heart  is  sore— 
My  heart  is  sore,  I  know  not  why. 

They  seem  to  say, 

The  summer  day 

Has  past  away, 
And  life  goes  with  it  silently. 


AUTUMN.  289 

Still  o'er  the  mountain's  darkening  bar 
We  watch  the  new-born  evening  star, 
That  throbs  and  quivers  in  the  sea 
Of  amber  light — and  musingly 
We  let  our  shaping  fancy  play 
With  those  soft  clouds  of  pearly  grey, 
That  float  along  the  silvery  sky. 

Ah  woe  !  ah  woe  ! 

We  all  must  go, 

The  chill  winds  blow, 
And  summer  's  gone  like  a  passing  sigh. 

These  Autumn  morns  when  we  may  stray 

Through  chestnut  woods,  where  glancing  play 

The  checkered  light  and  shadow  thrown 

O'er  trunk,  and  grass,  and  mossy  stone, 

And  lie  beneath  some  spreading  tree 

And  feel  our  own  felicity, 

How  sweet  if  they  would  never  fly — 

But  no  !  ah  no  ! 

'Tis  never  so  ! 

All  good  things  go, 

And  thought  pursues  them  with  a  sigh. 
T 


2QO  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

All  day  the  woods  are  redolent 
And  saddened  with  the  steamy  scent 
The  dewy  rotting  leaves  exhale 
That  heap  the  hollows  in  the  vale ; 
Then  through  the  bonfire's  quivering  gas 
The  landscape  shakes  as  it  would  pass, 
And  all  is  sad,  we  know  not  why  ; — 

All  seems  to  say 

The  summer  day 

Is  past  away, 
Why  linger  ye  to  say  Good-bye  ? 

No  more  the  fierce  cicala  shrills, 

Only  the  hearthstone-cricket  trills, — 

The  hemp-stalks  pile  their  bleaching  bones 

In  pyramids  of  skeletons, 

Or  clacking  cradles  break  them  where 

The  peasant  shakes  their  silvery  hair, 

And  flings  them  on  the  grass  to  dry. 

The  summer's  flown, 

The  leaves  are  strewn, 

And  we  alone 
Are  lingering  here  to  say  Good-bye. 


AUTUMN.  291 

The  cyclamen,  alive  with  fears, 
Smoothes  trembling  back  its  harelike  ears ; 
The  frost-touched  creepers  bleeding  fall, 
And  drip  in  crimson  o'er  the  wall ; 
The  rusted  chestnuts  shivering  spill 
Their  bursting  spine-burrs  on  the  hill ; 
The  day  is  short,  soon  comes  the  night, 

And  damp  and  chill 

Along  the  hill 

The  dews  distil 
Under  the  harvest-moon's  great  light. 

Louder  at  eve  the  river  roars ; 

The  fringed  acacia  paves  with  showers 

Of  golden  leaves  our  summer  path, 

And  all  the  world  about  us  hath 

A  feel  of  sorrow — we  must  go ; 

Alas  !  I  would  not  have  it  so, 

But  all  things  vanish  from  us  here, 

And  still  we  sigh, 

Ah  why,  ah  why, 

So  swiftly  fly, 
Ye  days  that  were  so  glad  and  dear  ? 


292  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

'Tis  lovely  still ;  but  yet  a  sense 

Of  sadness  and  impermanence 

Disturbs  me — and  this  flushing  grace 

That  mantles  over  Autumn's  face 

Is  but  the  hectic  hue,  beneath 

Whose  beauty  steals  the  thought  of  death, — 

And  this  it  is  that  makes  us  sigh. 

Ah !  bitter  word 

Too  often  heard, 

What  thoughts  are  stirred 
Whene'er  we  whisper  thee — Good-bye  ! 

Death  walks  along  my  shrouded  thought ; 

I  feel  him  though  I  see  him  not : 

His  step  is  on  the  joys  that  grew 

And  waved  this  lovely  summer  through. 

I  fear,  for  life  is  all  too  fair, 

And  trembling  ask,  Ah  !  when  ?  and  where  ? 

And  this  it  is  that  makes  me  sigh ; 

Too  sweet  to  last, 

Ah  !  golden  past 

That  fled  so  fast, 
No  future  owns  such  witchery. 


AN    ENGLISH    HUSBAND  TO  HIS 
ITALIAN  WIFE. 


WHAT  a  constant  jealousy  gnaws  your  heart ! 

It  tires  me  out ;  day  after  day 
Some  little  worry  from  nothing  you  start — 

Something's  hidden  in  what  I  say, 
Something's  hidden  in  what  I  do  ; 

That  heart  of  yours  is  never  still, 
It  cannot  be  sure  that  I  am  true, 

But  spies  and  pries  about  for  ill. 

Frankly  I  speak  the  whole  of  my  mind 
Once  for  all — -let  it  serve  or  not  : 

I  am  not  one  of  that  showy  kind, 
Fair  outside  with  an  inward  rot. 


294  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

I  love  you  !  will  not  that  suffice  ? 

No  !  I  must  say  it  again  and  again, 
And  embroider  it  over  with  flatteries, 

Or  all  I  have  said  and  done  is  vain. 

Trust  me  !  trust  my  simple  love ! 

If  you  suspect  me,  that  love  will  die. 
I  cannot  bear  to  be  forced  to  prove 

Every  moment  its  honesty. 
Ah  !  you  say,  I'm  so  still  and  cold  ! 

Well !  I  cannot  be  other  than  what  I  am  ; 
I  cannot  squander  my  lump  of  gold 

As  I  could  a  little  tinsel  sham. 

You  your  jewels  must  always  wear; 

What  is  their  use  if  they  are  not  shown  ? 
I  keep  mine  with  a  miser's  care, 

And  love  to  count  them  over  alone. 
I  cannot  abide  that  the  world  should  observe. 

What  it  thinks  is  nothing  to  me ; 
I  was  born  with  a  sense  of  reserve 

That  is  shocked  by  love's  publicity. 


AN    ENGLISH   HUSBAND,  ETC.  295 

You  have  a  richer  heart,  if  you  will, 

That  scatters  about  its  wide  largess ; 
Your  love  a  keeping  like  mine  would  kill, — 

All  that  you  feel  you  must  express. 
Your  love  seeks  for  the  light  and  sun, 

And  gives  its  perfume  to  every  breeze ; 
The  bees  get  its  honey — every  one — 

Its  beauty  whoever  passes  sees. 

Mine,  like  a  well,  is  still  and  deep  : 

Cold,  you  say  it  is,  like  a  well ; 
But  though  like  a  brook  it  will  not  leap 

And  joy  for  ever  one  tale  to  tell, 
It  still  is  real ;  and  when  the  year 

Hath  silenced  the  brook  with  its  shallow  laugh 
The  well's  cool  waters  will  still  be  clear, 

Where  those  who  trusted  may  surely  quaff. 

I  cannot,  like  Sarto,  publish  your  face 
In  every  Madonna,  Sibyl,  and  Saint, 

Or  praise  to  the  world  your  beauty  and  grace 
In  a  thousand  sonnets  sweet  and  faint. 


296  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

But  this  is  the  head's  work  more  than  the  heart's 
Skill  and  genius  they  show,  no  doubt ; 

But  the  painter  and  poet  may  give  to  their  Arts 
What  they  leave  their  lady,  perhaps,  without. 

Trust  me,  dear,  with  your  eyes  so  black 
And  full  of  passion, — these  eyes  of  blue, 

Though  your  excess  of  expression  they  lack, 
Are  not  the  less  sincere  and  true. 

I  cannot  fondle  you  every  hour 

With  many  a  pretty  and  gallant  phrase, 

Rain  out  my  love  as  a  cloud  its  shower, — 

But  trust  me,  and  leave  me  my  English  ways. 


IN    THE    MOONLIGHT. 


WE  sat  in  the  perfect  moonlight ; 

The  stars  were  dim  and  rare, 
And  above  us  the  elm-trees  rustled 

In  the  waves  of  the  cool  night-air. 

From  the  olives  and  vineyard  near  us 
The  kiou-owl  plaintively  cried, 

And  away  o'er  the  misty  hollows 
Its  mate  with  a  wail  replied. 

The  peasant  sang  in  the  distance, 
The  watchdog  barked  at  the  star, 


298  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  the  clack  of  the  cradles  beating  the  hemp 
Came  faint  from  the  farms  afar. 

* 

We  talked  of  the  times  of  our  childhood, 

Of  the  days  for  ever  flown, 
Of  their  games  and  their  jests  and  their  sorrows, 

And  the  playmates  we  had  known ; 

And  then  there  came  o'er  us  a  silence, 
While  the  cypresses  sighed  overhead,— 

And  dreaming  we  sat  and  listened 
To  the  voices  of  the  dead. 


NEMESIS. 
{Dedicated  to  E.  B.  H.~\ 


OPPRESSED  by  pain,  by  grief  subdued, 
I  closed  at  night  my  weary  eyes, 
When,  in  the  dubious  twilight  dim 
Betwixt  reality  and  dream, 
The  awful  shape  of  Nemesis — 
The  absolute — before  me  stood. 

Her  hands  within  her  robes  involved, 
And  folded  square  upon  her  breast, 
Immovable,  in  perfect  rest, 
From  sight  of  human  eyes  concealed 
The  dread  decree  of  Fate  she  held, 
By  time  and  death  to  be  resolved. 


300  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Severe  was  she  in  mood  and  mien, 

Like  one  who  never  saw  surprise ; 

Who,  deaf  alike  to  love  or  hate, 

Or  joy  or  fear,  impassionate 

Decreed  the  doom — decreed  the  prize — 

Inexorable,  yet  serene. 

"  Oh  !  what  hast  thou  for  me  in  store 
This  side  the  shadow  of  the  tomb  ? 
Pronounce  !  "  I  cried,  "  or  what  shall  be 
The  stern  decree  of  destiny 
When  life  and  death  alike  are  o'er?" 

"  Time  is  of  destiny  the  womb," 
She  answered.      "  Seek  not  to  explore 
What  the  eternal  powers  above 
Conceal,  in  pity  and  in  love, 
Behind  the  Future's  darkened  door. 

"  Content  within  the  present  live  ! 
Do  the  great  duty  of  to-day  ! 
Minute  by  minute  the  gods  give, 


NEMESIS.  301 

Each  unto  each  for  man  to  lay — 
Not  to  be  scorned— nor  thrown  away. 

"  With  love  and  justice  build  them  close 
By  strenuous  act  and  earnest  will ! 
Nor  let  your  wandering  wishes  loose 
To  anxious  hopes  or  fears  of  ill — 
So  will  you  best  time's  task  fulfil  ! 

"  Pile  not  with  vain  regrets  the  grave 

Of  the  irrevocable  past ! 

Seize  opportunity — enslave 

The  living  moments  while  they  last  ! 

For  Fortune  meets  half-way  the  brave." 

She  ceased ;  and  starting  from  my  sleep, 
I  heard  the  roaring  thunder,  thrown 
Far  down  from  mountain  steep  to  steep, 
And  dying  in  a  distant  groan, — 
And  waking,  found  myself  alone. 


BLACK     EYES. 


THOSE  black  eyes  I  once  so  praised, 

Now  are  hard  and  sharp  and  cold ; 
Where's  the  love  that  through  them  blazed  ? 

Where's  the  tenderness  of  old  ? 
All  is  gone — how  utterly — 

From  its  stem  the  flower  has  dropped. 
Ah  !  how  ugly  Life  can  be 

After  Love  from  it  is  lopped  ! 

Do  we  hate  each  other  now, 
While  we  call  each  other  dear  ? 

On  that  faultless  mouth  and  brow 
To  the  world  does  change  appear? 


BLACK   EYES.  303 

No  !  your  smile  is  just  as  sweet, 
Just  as  fair  your  outward  grace  ; 

But  I  look  in  vain  to  greet 

The  dear  ghost  behind  the  face. 

That  is  gone  !     I  look  on  you 

As  a  corpse  from  which  has  fled 
All  that  once  I  loved  and  knew, 

All  that  once  I  thought  to  wed. 
'Tis  not  your  fault,  'tis  not  mine  ; 

Yet  I  still  recall  a  dream 
Of  a  joy  almost  divine — 

'Twas  an  image  in  a  stream. 

Nothing  can  be  sour  and  sharp 

As  a  love  that  has  decayed — 
On  the  loose  strings  of  the  harp 

Only  discord  can  be  made. 
Cold  this  common  friendship  seems 

After  love's  auroral  glow ; 
On  the  broken  stem  of  dreams 

Only  disappointments  grow. 


304  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Do  I  hate  you  ?     No  !     Not  hate  ? 

Hate 's  a  word  far  too  intense, 
Too  alive,  to  speak  a  state 

Of  supreme  indifference. 
Once,  behind  your  eyes  I  thought 

Worlds  of  love  and  life  to  see ; 
Now  I  see  behind  them  nought 

But  a  soulless  vacancy. 

Out  and  out  I  know  you  now ; 

There's  no  issue  of  your  heart 
Where  my  soul  with  you  may  go 

To  a  beauty  all  apart, 
Where  the  world  can  never  come. 

'Tis  a  little  narrow  place — 
Friendship  there  might  find  a  home ; 

Love  would  die — for  want  of  space. 

So  we  live  !     The  world  still  says, 
"  What  expression  in  her  eyes  ! 

What  sweet  manners — graceful  ways  !" 
How  it  would  the  world  surprise 


BLACK   EYES.  305 

If  I  said,  "  This  woman's  soul 
Made  for  love  you  think,  but  try ; 

Plunge  therein — how  clear  and  shoal ! — 
You  might  drown  there — so  can't  I  ?" 


(7 


THE    SAD    COUNTRY. 


THERE  is  a  sad,  sad  country, 
Where  often  I  go  to  see 

A  little  child  that  for  all  my  love 
Will  never  come  back  to  me. 

There  smiles  he  serenely  on  me 
With  a  look  that  makes  me  cry ; 

And  he  prattling  runs  beside  me 
Till  I  wish  that  I  could  die. 

That  country  is  dim  and  dreary, 
Yet  I  cannot  keep  away, 


THE   SAD   COUNTRY.  307 

Though  the  shadows  there  are  heavy  and  dark, 
And  the  sunlight  sadder  than  they. 

And  there,  in  a  ruined  garden, 

Which  once  was  gay  with  flowers, 
I  sit  by  a  broken  fountain, 

And  weep  and  pray  for  hours. 


CASTEL     GANDOLFO. 


{Dedicated  to  L.  C.] 


THE  fountain  on  the  moonlight  plays, 
And  old  Castello's  turrets  rise 
Darkly  against  the  silvery  skies, 

And  voices  laugh  along  the  ways. 

The  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the  square ; 

And  from  the  castellated  town 

The  sharp  dark  blocks  of  shadow  thrown 
Lie  cut  out  in  the  whiteness  there. 

Among  the  trees  the  luccioli 

Show  fitfully  their  wandering  light, 


CASTEL   GANDOLFO.  309 

And  far  away  across  the  night 
The  owl  prolongs  his  dreary  cry. 

How  still !  how  exquisitely  still ! 

No  sound  disturbs  the  silentness 

Save  the  untiring  cricket's  stress, 
And  the  continuous  fountain's  spill. 

The  weeds  along  the  old  grey  wall 

Hang  moveless,  casting  spots  of  shade  ; 
And  all  is  beautified,  and  made 

More  perfect  where  the  moonbeams  fall. 

What  magic  light  that  thus  can  hide 
The  ravages  of  time,  and  grace 
The  commonest  and  meanest  place, 

And  veil  the  earth  as  'twere  a  bride  ! 

On  such  a  night  Diana  kissed 

Endymion's  brow  the  while  he  slept, 
As  noiselessly  to  him  she  crept 

Enshrouded  in  a  silver  mist. 


3io  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Oh  !  pass  not,  perfect  night,  from  us, 
But  stay  with  us  and  crown  our  love  ! 
Sing,  from  the  shadowy  ilex  grove — 

Sing,  nightingale,  for  ever  thus  ! 


AT      PEACE. 


'Tis  twilight !  the  murmurous  voices 
Of  maidens  that  stroll  with  their  lovers 
Beneath  the  dark  ilex's  shadows 
Come  faint  to  my  ear. 

No  cloud  in  the  soft  azure  heaven 
Is  floating — the  moon  in  its  fulness 
Looks  down  with  a  mild  face  of  pity, 
And  night  holds  its  breath. 

Innumerous  under  the  grasses 
The  grilli  are  ceaselessly  chirping, 


312  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Above  them  the  luccioli  lighten, 
And  all  is  at  peace  ! 

At  peace  !  ay,  the  peace  of  the  desert ! 
The  silence,  the  deep  desolation, 
That  comes  when  the  blast  has  swept  o'er  us 
And  buried  our  hopes. 

At  peace  !  when  the  music  that  thrilled  us, 
The  hand  that  its  harmonies  wakened, 
The  voice  that  was  soul  to  the  singing, 
Alike  are  at  rest ! 

At  peace  !  ay,  the  peace  of  the  ocean, 
When  past  is  the  storm  where  we  foundered, 
And  morning  looks  o'er  the  blank  waters, 
And  hears  but  their  moan  ! 


W  O  G  G  I  N  S. 


SINGING  little  artless  snatches, 

Words  and  music  all  her  own, 
While  her  dolls  she  tends  and  dresses, 

By  herself,  but  not  alone, 
Round  from  room  to  room  she  wanders, 

Through  the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs, 
And  her  sunny  buoyant  spirit 

Knows  but  trivial  shades  and  cares. 

Now  upon  the  stair  she's  singing ; 

Now,  in  corners  of  the  rooms, 
Self-involved,  her  little  household 

Patronising  she  assumes. 


GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

What  a  teeming  world  of  fiction 
Out  of  nothing  she  creates  ! 

Fancy,  childhood's  gentle  fairy, 
With  her  wand  upon  her  waits. 

Little  scraps  of  worthless  paper, 

Scribbled  o'er  with  crooked  lines, 
She  interprets  into  landscapes 

Where  an  endless  sunlight  shines. 
Conversations  wise  and  serious 

With  her  painted  dolls  she  holds  ; 
And  the  good  ones  she  caresses, 

And  the  naughty  ones  she  scolds. 

Now  she  brings  her  book  of  pictures, 

And  with  large  and  wondering  eyes, 
On  my  knee  she  sits  and  listens 

With  a  smile  of  young  surprise, 
While  I  tell  the  same  old  stories 

I  have  told  her  o'er  and  o'er 
Scores  of  times,  yet  when  I  finish, 

With  a  shout  she  cries,  "  Tell  more  ! " 


WOGGINS.  3  1 5 

Knowledge,  that  the  mind  encumbers, 

Cares,  that  after-years  harass, 
Are  to  her  but  misty  sun-showers, 

Rainbow  traps  that  come  and  pass. 
All  the  world  is  as  a  plaything — 

When  it  wearies,  thrown  away, 
As  from  new  to  new  she  ranges 

In  the  imagination's  play. 

Wisdom  such  as  thine  I  covet, 

Happy  childhood  !     Work  and  toil, 
Plans  that  never  reach  enjoyment, 

But  the  present's  beauty  spoil, 
Are  not  made  for  thee ;  contented 

With  the  present,  from  each  day 
But  its  juice  of  joy  thou  pressest, 

Fling'st  the  bitter  rind  away. 

Not  till  man  through  toil  and  labour 

Onward  pass  to  joyous  ease, 
Not  till  knowing  rhyme  with  loving, 

Nature  will  give  up  its  keys. 


316  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

All  is  shut  to  poet,  artist, 
Till  he  be  a  child  again ; 

And  in  play  shall  be  created 
What  was  never  born  of  pain. 


UNDER   THE    CYPRESSES. 


HERE  I  stand  in  the  cypress  lane ; 

I  see  the  light  in  her  window  shine ; 
Ah,  God  !  can  this  love  be  all  in  vain, 

And  shall  she  never  be  mine  ? 

There  stays  her  shadow  against  the  walls ; 

There  moves  on  the  ceiling  to  and  fro  : 
She  does  not  think  of  the  heart  that  calls 

So  loud  in  the  dark  below. 

Why  should  she  think  of  a  fool  like  me, 

Though  I'd  give  my  life  to  save  her  a  pain  ? 


318  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

The  stars  might  as  well  look  down  to  see 
The  fire-flies  in  the  lane. 

I  am  too  low  for  her  to  love ; 

And  I  would  not  give  her  the  pain  to  say 
That  a  love  like  mine  could  only  prove 

A  shadow  upon  her  way. 

So  I  stand  in  the  cypress  shade  and  weep — 
I  weep,  for  my  heart  is  sick  with  love ; 

And  I  pray  for  strength  my  vow  to  keep, 
As  I  gaze  on  the  sky  above. 

Is  it  wrong  to  gaze  at  her  window-sill, 
Where  she  sits  like  an  angel  in  a  shrine, 

While  my  heart  cries  out,  despite  my  will, 
"  Ah,  heaven  !  were  she  but  mine?" 

Heart  of  mine,  I  could  tear  you  out ! 

Am  I  so  weak  and  faint  of  will 
That  the  fair  dear  serpent  coiled  about 

My  purpose  I  cannot  kill  ? 


UNDER   THE   CYPRESSES.  319 

Where  is  my  vaunted  manhood  fled  ? 

Come,  my  pride — my  pride,  come  back  ! 
Serve  me  and  prompt  me  a  while,  instead 

Of  all  I  so  sadly  lack  ! 

Vain  !  ah,  vain  !  all  day  and  night 

One  thought,  like  a  ghost,  I  cannot  lay, 

Ranges  my  life  and  haunts  my  sight, 
And  never  will  pass  away. 

It  mocks  me  and  beckons  at  my  work, 
It  lures  me  away  from  joy  and  ease ; 

Where  shall  I  flee  that  it  does  not  lurk, 
This  shadow  no  hand  can  seize  ? 

Give  me  something  to  meet  and  grasp  ! 

I  faint  with  fighting  this  thing  of  air  ! 
I  die  despairing  in  its  clasp  ! 

Its  presence  I  cannot  bear  ! 

Oh,  give  me  strength,  my  God,  to  endure  ! 
Let  me  not  writhe  to  death  in  the  grass  ! 


320  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Send  me,  ye  stars,  from  your  chambers  pure, 
Some  ease,  as  ye  coldly  pass  ! 

Look  at  this  poor  mad  wretch  that  lies 
Beating  his  brain  that  is  all  afire  ! 

Pity  him  here  as  he  grovelling  dies 
In  the  flames  of  his  vain  desire  ! 


TO       B  I  A  N  C  A. 


"Tu  ne  qusesieris,  scire  nefas." 

CEASE  to  peer  into  the  future,  nor  torture  yourself  with 

care 
Of  fancied  delights  or  troubles  that  never  may  fall  to 

your  share ! 

The  present  alone  is  ours;  in  that  let  us  live  content, 
Enjoying  the  daily  blessings  the  gods  for  the  moment 

have  lent. 

And  cease  to  torment  your  spirit  with  that  which  has 

passed  away, 
The  love  that  has  vanished,  the  passion,  the  folly  that 

led  you  astray ; 

X 


322  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Not  hoping  too  much,  not  regretting — for  what  is  more 

vain  than  regret  ? — 
And,  never  the  gladness  forgetting,  the  pain  and  the 

sorrow  forget. 

Take,  oh  Bianca,  the  beauty  and  joy  of  the  world  to  thy 

heart ! 
For  the  power  to  enjoy  is  not  only  a  blessing, — 'tis  also 

an  art. 
And  be  glad  for  the  gifts  that  are  granted,  nor  envy 

what  cannot  be  thine  ; 
For  the  life,  that  with  Fate  is  in  balance,  is  peaceful, 

and,  so  far,  divine. 


THE  PADRE  AND  THE  NOVICE. 


{Dedicated  to  R.  Z.J 


I. 
Do  you  hear,  Lorenzo  ?     I  say  these  wishes  and  vague 

desires 
Will  all  of  them  pass  away,  though  now  they  seem  so 

bright ; 

They  are  will-o'-the-wisps  that  breed  uncertain  treacher 
ous  fires : 
No  real  lamps  that  lead  the  traveller  through  the  night. 

ii. 

My  youth  has  gone  like  a  song.     You  heed  not  an  old 

man's  words. 
Yet  once,  like  you,  I  was  young.     Alas  !  I  know  it  all ; 


324  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

And  often  my  memory  smites  my  thoughts,  and  awakens 

chords 
Of  far  and  dim  delights,  that  I  tremble  as  I  recall. 

ill. 

I  loved  !     Ah  !  yes,  I  loved  with  a  love  that  maddened 

my  mind — 
With  a  passion  that  reason  reproved — I  loved,  as  I  pray 

to  God 
You  never  may  love,  my  boy;    and  the  storm  came 

down,  and  the  wind, 
And  my  hope  was  crushed,  and  my  joy — as  you  crush 

these  flowers  in  the  sod. 

IV. 

I  awoke — as  a  man  may  wake  from  a  wild  and  feverish 

dream — 
Useless  and  helpless — a  wreck, — with  scarcely  the  wish 

or  power 
On  the  spars  of  life  to  drift, — and  a  fierce  regret  that 

the  stream, 
Sweeping  to  death  so  swift,  had  flung  me  aside  for  an 

hour. 


THE    PADRE   AND   THE   NOVICE.  325 

V. 

Slowly  the  world  came  back ;    but  oh  !    how  changed 

and  drear ! 
The  serpent  was  on  its  track — my  spirit  was  bitter  and 

dark. 
I  rushed   to   battle; — Death   passed   me,   shaking  his 

sword  and  spear, 
And,  scornful,  aside  he  cast  me,  making  the  happy  his 

mark. 

VI. 

But  the  savage    hate  of   life  died  down  like  a  fading 

flame ; 
And  weary  and  worn  with  strife,  and  broken  and  spent 

with  care, — 

With  a  spirit  inly  stirred,  to  the  convent  grate  I  came, 
And  God  in  His  mercy  heard, — and  peace  returned  with 

prayer. 

VII. 

There  is  peace,  that  nothing  taints,  in  the  life  that  to 

God  is  given — 
To   Christ,   and   the   holy  saints — that   minister   unto 

man; 


326  GRAFFITI    D'lTALIA. 

For  the  world  is  a  snare  and  a  lure  that  leads  us  away 

from  heaven, 
And  Love  is  a  demon  impure,  that  tears  us  whenever  it 

can. 

VIII. 
Ah  !  flee  from  the  coils  it  spreads.     Oh  yield  not  unto 

its  snare  ! 

Gilded  at  first  its  threads,  in  torture  at  last  they  end  ; 
And  Love,  like  the  Sphinx  of  old,  with  its  bosom  and 

face  so  fair, 
Hath  arms  of  the  tiger  to  hold,  and  claws  of  the  tiger  to 

rend. 

IX. 

Look  not  back — be  advised — on  the  path  you  have 

chosen  so  well. 
The  Church  is  the  fold  of  Christ :    the  world  is  the 

devil's  den. 
Hark  !  'tis  the  Angelus,  ringing  afar  from  the  convent 

bell— 
Ave  Maria  sanctissima,  ora  pro  nobis. — Amen. 


UNDER    A    CLOUD. 


AH  me  !  I'm  so  ill  and  weary, 

I  wish  I  could  only  die  ! 
For  here  all  alone  and  dreary, 

As  hour  after  hour  I  lie, 
I  think  it  all  over  and  over, 

And  see  no  issue  of  peace  ; 
No  way  the  lost  joy  to  recover, 

If  death  do  not  give  me  release. 

I  know  not  what  change  may  come  after, 

But  that  I  take  upon  trust ; 
Perhaps  no  more  weeping  nor  laughter — 

Only  a  handful  of  dust. 


328  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Perhaps  a  glory  and  gladness 
We  never  have  dreamt  of  here, 

Where  love  has  no  shadow  of  sadness, 
And  joy  has  no  shudder  of  fear. 

At  least  I  shall  no  more  sorrow, 

And  suffer  such  helpless  pain, 
With  no  hope  for  the  coming  morrow, 

No  hope  to  behold  him  again. 
And  that  terrible  longing  and  craving 

Again  in  his  arms  to  be, 
Will  cease  in  my  heart  to  be  raving 

And  tearing  me  inwardly. 

But  then,  perhaps,  I  shall  lose  him — 

And  here,  if  I  strive  and  stay, 
Since  God  is  so  good,  if  one  sues  Him, 

Perhaps  he  will  open  a  way- 
Some  way  through  this  tangle  of  anguish 

To  a  joy  beyond  our  sight, 
Nor  leave  as  to  linger  and  languish, 

Like  creatures  lost  in  the  night. 


UNDER   A   CLOUD.  329 

Here,  as  I  lie,  I  go  over 

The  dear  departed  days, 
When  my  love  I  began  to  discover, 

Till  my  thoughts  are  all  in  a  craze ; 
And  the  vines  on  the  sunny  terrace, 

Through  the  windows  again  I  see ; 
And  the  room  with  the  quaint  old  arras, 

Where  he  whispered  his  love  to  me. 

But  what  is  the  use  of  thinking  ? 

'Tis  all  like  a  sleepless  pain, 
That  keeps  tramping,  tramping,  and  clinking 

In  the  treadmill  of  my  brain. 
'Tis  like  hearing  the  music  for  ever 

Going  on  to  the  dancers'  tread, 
\Vhile  I'm  fainting  and  dying  with  fever, 

And  helpless  to  lift  my  head. 

I  am  getting  so  old  with  fretting, 

Perhaps  he  will  love  me  no  more ; 
And  I  sometimes  fear  his  forgetting, 

And  this  makes  my  heart  so  sore. 


330  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  before  the  stone  that  is  lying 

Across  my  path  is  removed, 
Who  knows  but  that  he  may  be  dying, 

To  make  it  vain  that  we  loved. 

Oh  Nannie,  you  soon  will  be  strewing 

The  flowers  on  the  bed  where  I  lie  ! 
Last  week  I  thought  I  was  going  ! 

But  oh,  'tis  so  hard  to  die  ! 
Life  beat  in  my  bosom  so  slowly, 

Though  a  fever  was  in  my  brain — 
And  everything  went  from  me  wholly, 

Save  a  numb,  dull  sense  of  pain. 

In  body  and  mind  I  seemed  doubled ; 

And  one  was  so  tired  and  weak, 
And  the  other  was  dead  and  untroubled — 

Too  dead  to  feel  or  to  speak. 
And  the  tired  body  kept  praying, 

"  Make  me,  too,  cold  and  numb." 
"  Let  me  sleep,  let  me  sleep,"  it  kept  saying- 

But  sleep  would  never  come. 


UNDER   A   CLOUD.  33! 

Oh  God  !  that  it  all  were  over, 

For  life  is  not  worth  its  cost ; 
And  I  know  I  can  never  recover 

The  joy  and  the  peace  that  are  lost. 
Death  only  can  break  the  fetter, 

Death  only  can  set  things  straight ; 
And  death,  after  all,  is  better 

Than  a  lifelong  struggle  with  fate. 

Tell  George  he  must  try  and  forgive  me, 
For  my  struggle,  though  vain,  was  sore ; 

And  beg  him  in  quiet  to  leave  me, 
And  scold  and  reproach  me  no  more. 

I  was  weak — but  'tis  useless  to  chide  me, 
Let  him  leave  me  alone  to  God ; 

And  bury  my  sins  beside  me, 
When  he  lays  me  under  the  sod. 


THE     SHADY     LANE. 


I  WAITED  for  him  in  the  shady  lane, 

For  I  knew  he  would  pass  there  late  at  night  • 
And  that  leaf-strewn  wood  I  swore  to  stain 

With  his  blood  or  mine,  for  I  hated  his  sight. 
There  I  waited  and  listened  alone, 

With  a  tumult  of  rage  in  my  heart  and  brain ; 
And  I  swore  to  myself  the  deed  should  be  done 

To-night,  as  he  passed  the  lane. 

Was  I  not  right?     He  had  stolen  her  heart — 
My  heart,  that  more  than  my  life  was  dear ; 

Had  poisoned  her  mind  with  his  treacherous  art, 
And  his  vile  love  breathed  in  her  ear. 


THE   SHADY   LANE.  333 

He,  the  contemptible  trivial  fool, 

With  never  a  scruple  or  doubt  or  fear 

Of  his  exquisite  self — to  make  her  the  tool 
Of  his  flatteries  insincere  ! 

Why  did  she  blush  as  she  heard  him  speak, 

Flushing  all  over  as  red  as  a  rose 
When  he  touched  her  hand  ?  and  tremble,  as  weak 

As  a  reed  when  a  light  wind  blows. 
What  was  there,  I  say,  in  that  empty  face, 

In  that  empty  head,  and  emptier  heart, 
That  gave  him  the  power  her  name  to  disgrace, 

And  my  darling  from  me  to  part  ? 

I  knew  his  step,  as  gaily  he  came, 

Swinging  his  stick  as  he  strode  along — 
Hate  lightened  along  my  nerves  like  flame, 

I  was  mad  to  hear  him  singing  that  song. 
Before  him  I  leaped  with  a  single  bound, 

Face  to  face  in  the  pale  moonlight — 
"No  words,"  I  cried;  "blows,  blows,  you  hound; 

One  of  us  two  must  die  to-night." 


334  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Aghast  he  stood,  but  not  with  fear, 

Most  with  the  suddenness  of  the  thing — 
As  one  when  the  sky  is  bright  and  clear 

Starts  at  the  lightning's  sudden  sting. 
"  You  !"  he  cried.     "  Back  ;  let  me  pass  ! 

Back,  I  say;  are  you  drunk  or  mad?" 
v"  Both,"  I  cried.     "You  have  ruined  the  lass 

And  your  blood  shall  answer,  my  lad." 

We  fought  together  there  in  the  shade, 

As  a  madman  and  his  keeper  fight ; 
He  for  his  life,  that  love  had  made 

So  sweet,  and  I  for  his  death,  that  night. 
That  love  ! — a  fire  was  in  my  brain, 

The  strength  of  a  fiend  was  in  my  hand, 
And  at  last  he  dropped  in  the  shady  lane, 

And  his  blood  oozed  out  on  the  sand. 

"  My  life  !  don't  murder  me,"  he  said, 
As  I  clenched  him  there — when  suddenly 

The  struggling  body  lay  heavy  and  dead, 
And  I  felt  above  me  the  moon's  great  eye. 


THE   SHADY   LANE.  335 

There,  alone,  where  a  moment  before 

Two  were  struggling,  was  only  one ! 
"Thank  God  !"  I  cried,  "he  will  love  no  more, 

And  deceive  no  more — 'tis  done  !" 

The  hate  that  had  blazed  so  fierce  calmed  down 

Slowly,  until  of  its  raging  glow 
Only  the  ashes  were  left.     The  frown 

Cleared  away  from  my  knotted  brow. 
In  the  trough  of  my  passion's  swell  I  lay, 

And  a  sickening  calm  across  me  crept, 
As  the  satiate  passions  slank  away 

Drunk  with  revenge,  and  slept. 

The  deed  was  done  !  but  an  ugly  fear 

Came  over  me  now  to  touch  this  thing. 
There  was  nothing  to  struggle  against  me  here 

In  this  lifeless  heap ;  I  wished  it  would  spring 
And  grasp  me,  and  strike  at  me  as  it  did 

Only  a  moment  or  two  before. 
I  lifted  the  head,  but  it  dropped  and  slid 

From  my  grasp  to  its  bed  of  gore. 


336  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Coward  !  'tis  but  a  carcass  that's  dead  ! 

Lift  it ;  drag  it  along  the  wood  ! 
No  one  is  looking — carefully  spread 

Dry  leaves  over  the  stains  of  blood  ! 
Hark  ! — ah  !  'tis  but  the  rustling  leaves, 

As  the  freshening  night -wind  lifts  and  dies  ; 
'Tis  but  the  wind  that  sighs  and  grieves — 

No  eye  sees  but  the  starry  eyes  ! 

What  will  you  do  with  this  horrible  thing  ? 

Down  !  and  grub  a  grave  in  the  ground  ! 
Grub  with  your  nails  !     If  you  choose,  you  may  sing 

That  song  of  his.     Don't  start  and  look  round  ! 
'Tis  but  a  corpse  you  are  burying  now — 

Surely  that  is  a  Christian  deed- 
How  she  would  thank  you  ! — clear  your  brow— 

What  else  do  you  ask  or  need  ? 

Dig  ! — how  terribly  slow  you  are  ! 

The  dawn  in  the  east  begins  to  grow ; 
The  birds  are  all  chirping — bury  there 

That  body  at  once,  and  for  God's  sake  go  ! 


THE   SHADY   LANE.  337 

The  world  will  be  up  in  less  than  an  hour, 
And  rattle  and  ring  along  the  road — 

Dig  for  your  life  ! — ah,  well !  that's  o'er  ! 
And  he  lies  in  his  last  abode. 

Speed  o'er  the  country,  slink  to  your  room, 

Happy  at  last  that  the  deed  is  done  ! 
Why  do  you  look  so  ? — surely  the  gloom 

That  clouded  so  long  your  life  has  gone  ! 
Why  do  you  shrink  from  the  open  street  ? 

Why  should  you  hide  from  the  gaze  of  men  ? 
Go  !  tell  her  your  night's  work  when  you  meet, 

And  surely  she'll  kiss  you  and  love  you  then. 


UNDER    THE    ILEXES. 


{Dedicated  to  A.  L  T.~\ 


DARK  ilexes  above,  dry  sward  below, 
O'er  which  the  flickering  sunglobes  come  and  go ; 
Beyond,  the  swooping  valley  roughed  by  lines 
Ruled  by  the  plough  between  the  rows  of  vines ; 
O'er  yellow  sunburnt  slopes  the  olives  grey 
Casting  their  rounded  shadows ;  far  away 
A  stately  parliament  of  poised  stone-pines  ; 
Dark  cypresses  with  golden  balls  bestrewn, 
Each  rocking  to  the  breeze  its  solemn  cone ; 
Dim  mountains,  veiled  in  dreamy  mystery, 
Sleeping  upon  the  pale  and  tender  sky ; 
And  near,  with  softened  shades  of  purple  brown, 
By  distance  hushed,  the  peaceful  mellowed  town, 


UNDER   THE   ILEXES.  339 

Domes,  roofs,  and  towers  all  sleeping  tranced  and  still — 
A  painted  city  on  a  painted  hill. 

Here  let  me  lie  and  my  siesta  take, 

And  gaze  about  me,  dreaming,  half  awake. 

What  peace  is  here  !  what  rapt  tranquillity  ! — 
The  far-off  voices  seem  to  lull  the  sense ; 
The  cock's  clear  crow  sounds  faint  and  drowsily ; 
The  sharp  fly  buzzing  round  the  leafy  fence ; 
The  burning  wasp,  the  bees  that  droning  hum 
Along  the  shining  spires  of  withered  grass ; 
The  far  cathedral  bell's  half-buried  boom ; 
The  leaves  that  whisper  as  the  breezes  come, 
And  talk  a  moment  with  them  as  they  pass, 
Break  not  the  calm ;— with  half-shut  dreaming  eyes 
I  watch  them,  while  my  idle  fancies  stray, 
Even  as  these  noiseless  yellow  butterflies, 
That  poise  on  grass  or  flower,  and  drift  away 
Like  wavering  leaves  in  their  perpetual  play. 
And  all  these  sounds  come  vague  to  me  and  seem 
Drowned  in  the  air,  like  voices  in  a  dream. 


340  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Look  at  this  ilex-trunk's  mosaic  bark, 
With  all  its  myriad  cracks,  and  seams,  and  squares  ! 
See  with  what  patient  pains  and  happy  cares 
Tis  painted  o'er  with  lichens  light  and  dark, 
Rich  brown,  pale  grey,  and  softest  malachite, 
And  every  hue  that  can  the  eye  delight ! 
This  moss  of  golden  green  that  round  it  clings, 
Is  a  vast  forest  filled  with  noiseless  things, 
That  'neath  its  jungle  make  their  secret  lairs. 
Here  the  black  ant  may  hunt  as  in  a  park, 
Here  hosts  of  beetles  come  in  burnished  mail, 
On  secret  errands  bent  from  underground ; 
Some  with  vermilion  corselets  on  their  back, 
Marked    with    black    crosses,    some   with   gold    em 
browned, 
Some  bronzed  with  shadowy  green,  some  ribbed  and 

black, 

Splendid  as  mortal  knight  was  never  found. 
Here  creeps  the  torpid  locust  from  his  cell, 
Deep  at  its  roots,  to  shed  his  silvery  shell, 
Breaks  the  thin  crust,  and  spreads  his  gauzy  wings, 
And  in  the  shade  his  praise  of  summer  sings. 


UNDER   THE   ILEXES.  341 

Here,  in  the  centre  of  his  woven  wheel, 
That  dimly  glistening  in  the  shadow  shakes, 
Hangs  the  fat  spider,  ready  and  aware, 
Round  the  fierce  fly  that  pertinacious  there 
Darts  to  and  fro,  his  silvery  coil  to  reel. 
Here  the  slim  dragon-fly  her  visit  makes 
On  glassy  vans  that  gleam  with  opal  hues, 
And  waves  her  tail  of  green  enamelled  rings. 
Here  the  black  grille  burrows  all  day  long ; 
And  peeping  forth  when  fall  the  twilight  dews, 
Trills  to  the  night  its  little  simmering  song. 
Here  creep  among  the  grass,  at  work,  or  game, 
Swarms  of  strange  life  that  scarcely  own  a  name ; 
Here  live,  and  love,  and  fight,  and  sleep,  and  die, 
Plagued  by  no  dreams  of  immortality. 
World  within  world,  the  deeper  that  we  gaze, 
Life  widens,  death  recedes,  the  mass  inert 
Moves  into  being ;  all  this  mould  and  dirt 
Is  living  in  its  own  mysterious  ways. 

Which  shall  we  dare  most  wonderful  to  call, 
The  infinite  great,  or  not  less  infinite  small  ? 


342  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Puzzled  I  gaze  upon  this  spiring  grass 

That  'neath  me  lies,  and  ask, — can  aught  surpass 

The  wonder  of  this  life  minute  that  moves 

Beneath  my  hand,  and  struggles,  suffers,  loves  ? 

Are  the  vast  worlds  that  darkness  shows  to  night, 

Or  day  enshrouds  in  its  abyss  of  light, 

More  strange  than  this  that  hides  from  human  eye 

In  the  minuteness  of  its  mystery? 

No  more  !  the  shadows  shrink  ;  the  prying  sun 

Hath  found  me  out     The  morning's  gone — how  soon  ! 

The  far  cathedral  bell  is  striking  noon. 

This  sketch,  dear  Annie,  is  for  you — half  done. 


OPHELIA. 


THE  rising  wind  o'er  wold  and  hill 
Blows  dreary,  leadening  all  the  lake  ; 
And  all  the  whitened  willows  shake, 

And  twilight  closes  blear  and  chill. 

The  mist  hangs  thickening  o'er  the  sea, 
A  spectral  light  is  in  the  sky, 
And  all  the  branches  creak  and  sigh, 

And  my  heart  sighs  with  them  drearily. 

Oh  where  is  love  that  once  was  mine  ? 

Speak,  oh  my  heart,  and  tell  me  where  ! 

Tell  me,  oh  wind  !  whose  wild  despair 
Is  wrestling  with  the  straining  pine  ! 


344  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

I  rock  its  corpse  so  cold  and  pale, 
I  braid  its  hair  and  kiss  its  eyes, 
And  deck  it  with  sweet  memories ; 

Yet  what  can  tears  and  moans  avail  ? 

Oh  call  it  back  to  life  again, 

With  all  its  tones  of  youth  and  spring 
Or  break  at  once  the  throbbing  string 

That  jars  so  wildly  in  my  brain. 

The  past  is  past, — with  sullen  moan, 
Oh  dreary  wind,  I  hear  you  cry  ! 
And  all  the  struggling  trees  reply, 

Alone,  alone,  alone,  alone. 


THE    RIVER   OF   TIME. 


OH  !  the  river  that  runs  for  ever, 

The  rapid  river  of  time  ! 
The  silent  river,  that  pauses  never, 

Nor  ceases  its  solemn  rhyme  ! 

How  swift  by  the  flowery  banks  it  rushes, 

Where  love  and  joy  are  at  play, 
And  stretch  out  their  hands  writh  laughter  and  blushes, 

And  beg  it  in  vain  to  stay  ! 

How  slow  through  the  sullen  marsh  of  sorrow 

It  creeps  with  a  lingering  pain  ; 
When  night  comes  down  and  we  long  for  the  morrow, 

And  longing  is  all  in  vain  ! 


346  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

O'er  sparkling  shoals  of  glittering  folly, 

O'er  deeps  of  dreadful  crime, 
O'er  gladness  and  madness  and  melancholy, 

Through  fears  and  hopes  sublime, 

Ruthlessly  on  in  waking  or  sleeping, 

Unheeding  our  wish  or  will, 
Through  loving  and  laughing,  and  wailing  and  weeping, 

It  bears  us  for  good  or  ill — 

Bears  us  down  with  a  fearful  motion, 

In  a  current  no  eye  can  see, 
Down  to  the  vast  mysterious  ocean 

We  call  eternity. 


RENUNCIATION. 


OH  no  !  you  shall  not  catch  me  in  the  snare — 

I  will  not  love,  I  say ! 
Life  might  become  a  terror,  a  despair, 

If  you  were  ta'en  away. 

Nothing  is  given  here,  'tis  only  lent,— 

I  will  not,  dare  not,  trust : 
For  joy  might  strike  at  once  his  heaven-built  tent, 

And  leave  me  but  its  dust. 

What  horror,  after  all  my  life  was  given, 

Adventured  in  one  bark, 
If  that  should  go,  even  to  the  joy  of  heaven, 

And  I  left  in  the  dark ! 


348  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Left  on  a  wreck  of  sorrow,  with  no  power 

My  losses  to  repair ; 
With  death  denied,  and  every  torturing  hour 

By  memory  made  a  snare. 

Left  with  the  dregs  of  life,  its  wine  poured  out ; 

Left  to  the  past  a  prey ; 
From  its  sad  ghosts  that  haunt  my  heart  about, 

Helpless  to  flee  away. 

No  !  I  renounce  life's  bliss— love's  perfect  flower, 

Sweet  though  it  be  ! — I  choose 
The  lower,  lasting  lot,  arid  keep  the  power, 

Without  a  pang,  to  lose. 


NIGHT-WATCH. 


{Dedicated  to  J.  O.  S\] 


NIGHT  the  mysterious,  silent,  solemn  night, 

Broods  over  all ! 
Time,  sweeping  onward  to  the  infinite, 

No  sound  lets  fall. 
We  hear  alone  its  heavy  lifting  breath 

Of  deep  repose, 
As  turning  slowly  in  its  dream  of  death 

The  great  earth  goes. 

Above,  below,  is  silence  !     In  the  deep 

Of  the  vast  sky, 
In  the  low  hollows  where  the  white  mists  heap 

And  shroud-like  lie, 


35°  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

On  the  far  plains  where  ghostlike  in  the  shade 

Dim  olives  dwell, 
O'er  slumbering  city,  forest,  sea,  is  laid 

Night's  secret  spell. 

Tranced  in  the  silence  of  this  mystery, 

An  awe  intense 
Of  all  that  is,  and  was,  and  is  to  be, 

Weighs  on  the  sense ; 
And  shapeless  thoughts  and  disembodied  dreams 

That  end  in  sighs, 
Sad  memories,  longings  vague,  and  vanished  schemes, 

.Before  me  rise. 

Cease,  ye  wild  thoughts  !     In  duty's  narrow  bound 

Alone  is  peace  ! 
Oh  infinite  sea  !  that  plummet  cannot  sound, 

In  thy  abyss 
Of  wild  conjecture  we  but  sink  and  drown. 

The  awful  breath 
That  blows  from  out  the  future  bears  us  down 

To  fear,— to  death. 


A      LEGEND. 


HIGH  noon  in  Acre  blazed,  and  all  the  throng 
Had  sought  the  shade,  when  striding  stern  along 
The  burning  street,  and  through  the  open  square, 
With  feet  unsandalled  and  dishevelled  hair, 
Was  seen  a  figure  strange,  mysterious,  tall, 
With  face  uncovered,  yet  unknown  to  all. 
Round  her  she  gazed  with  wild  impassioned  look, 
And  in  one  hand  a  flaming  torch  she  shook 
High  o'er  her  head,  and  in  the  other  bore 
A  jar  with  water  brimmed  and  running  o'er,— 
And  with  a  high  clear  voice  she  cried,  "  Behold  ! 
I  will  bum  heaven  up  with  this  torch  I  hold, 


352  GRAFFITI   D  ITALIA. 

And  with  this  jar  of  water  I,  as  well, 

Will  quench  for  ever  all  the  fires  of  hell, 

So  that  when  heaven  and  hell  alike  are  gone, 

Man  may  love  God,  for  God's  own  sake  alone." 


IN     THE     GARDEN. 


SUMMER  is  dying,  slowly  dying — 

She  fades  with  every  passing  day; 
In  the  garden  alleys  she  wanders,  sighing, 

And  pauses  to  grieve  at  the  sad  decay. 

The  flowers  that  came  with  the  spring's  first  swallow, 
When  March  crept  timidly  over  the  hill, 

And  slept  at  noon  in  the  sunny  hollow— 
The  snowdrop,  the  crocus,  the  daffodil, 

The  lily,  white  for  an  angel  to  carry, 
The  violet,  faint  with  its  spirit-breath, 

The  passion-flower,  and  the  fleeting,  airy 
Anemone — all  have  been  struck  by  death. 
Z 


354  GRAFFITI  D  ITALIA. 

Autumn  the  leaves  is  staining  and  strewing, 
And  spreading  a  veil  o'er  the  landscape  rare ; 

The  glory  and  gladness  of  summer  are  going, 
And  a  feeling  of  sadness  is  in  the  air. 

The  purple  hibiscus  is  shrivelled  and  withered, 

And  languid  lolls  its  furry  tongue ; 
The  burning  pomegranates  are  ripe  to  be  gathered 

The  grilli  their  last  farewell  have  sung -, 

The  fading  oleander  is  showing 

Its  last  rose-clusters  over  the  wall, 
And  the  tubes  of  the  trumpet-flower  are  strewing 

The  gravel-walks  as  they  loosen  and  fall ; 

The  crocketed  spire  of  the  hollyhock  towers, 
For  the  sighing  breeze  to  rock  and  swing ; 

On  its  top  is  the  last  of  its  bell-like  flowers, 
For  the  wandering  bee  its  knell  to  ring. 

In  their  earthen  vases  the  lemons  yellow, 
The  sun-drunk  grapes  grow  lucent  and  thin, 


IN   THE   GARDEN.  355 

The  pears  on  the  sunny  espalier  mellow, 
And  the  fat  figs  swell  in  their  purple  skin  ; 

The  petals  have  dropped  from  the  spicy  carnation ; 

And  the  heartless  dahlia,  formal  and  proud, 
Like  a  worldly  lady  of  lofty  station, 

Loveless  stares  at  the  humble  crowd. 

And  the  sunflower,  too,  looks  boldly  around  her ; 

While  the  bella-donna,  so  wickedly  fair, 
Shorn  of  the  purple  flowers  that  crowned  her, 

Is  telling  her  Borgian  beads  in  despair. 

See  !  by  the  fountain  that  softly  bubbles, 

Spilling  its  rain  in  the  lichened  vase, 
Summer  pauses  ! — her  tender  troubles 

Shadowing  over  her  pensive  face. 

The  lizard  stops  on  its  brim  to  listen, 

The  butterfly  wavers  dreamily  near, 
And  the  dragon-flies  in  their  green  mail  glisten, 

And  watch  her,  as  pausing  she  drops  a  tear — 


356  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Not  as  she  stood  in  her  August  perfection  ! 

Not  as  she  looked  in  the  freshness  of  June  ! 
But  gazing  around  with  a  tender  dejection, 

And  a  weary  face  like  the  morning  moon. 

The  breeze  through  the  leafy  garden  quivers, 

Dying  away  with  a  sigh  and  moan  : 
A  shade  o'er  the  darkening  fountain  shivers, 

And  Summer,  ghost-like,  hath  vanished  and  gone. 


SYMBOLS. 


{Dedicated  to  E.  M.  S.~] 


STILL  hearts,  whose  passions  never  stir, 

At  times  I  envy  your  repose  ! 
Smooth  lakes,  where  coyest  wild-fowl  whir, 

Ye  feel  no  troublous  ebbs  and  flows  ! 

Yet,  tropic  hearts,  your  fiercer  play 
Of  sun  and  storm,  of  noon  and  night, 

Is  dearer  than  perpetual  day 
In  Arctic  summer's  glacial  light. 

Great  clouds,  which  bear  upon  your  backs 
The  sunshine,  in  your  breasts  the  storm- 


358  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Alps  of  the  air,  whose  pathless  tracks 
Ye  course  with  ever-changing  form ; 

By  morning  touched  with  aureole  light ; 

At  sunset  stranded — firing  far 
Your  dull  distress-guns — or  at  night 

Raced  through  by  many  a  startled  star- 

Ye  are  the  types  that  Genius  loves  ! 

So,  moulded  by  an  inward  stress, 
A  shade,  a  storm,  it  o'er  us  moves, 

A  power  to  threaten  or  to  bless. 


IN    THE    SHADOW. 


AND  can  it  be  that  all  is  o'er — 
That  I  shall  never  see  you  more  ? 

Or  is  it  but  a  dream  of  night, 

That  soon  will  pass  with  morning's  light  ? 

Oh  !  is  the  joy  I  used  to  own 

So  lost,  beyond  the  power  to  save ; 

And  can  it  be  that  you  are  gone, 
And  in  the  grave  ? 

Not  young,  perhaps,  as  others  see, 
Yet  ever  young  you  seemed  to  me  ; 

The  same  sweet  smile  and  tender  art 
Remained,  that  first  beguiled  my  heart ; 


360  GRAFFITI   D'lTALlA. 

The  same  dear  look  and  gentle  tone 

That  ever  its  fresh  welcome  gave — 
And  can  it  be  that  you  are  gone, 
And  in  the  grave  ? 

Some  silver  lines  were  in  your  hair, 
But  yet  I  never  saw  them  there  : 

The  years  went  on  to  you  and  me 
So  gently  and  so  evenly, 

That  scarce  it  seemed  a  week  had  flown 
Since  first  to  me  your  love  you  gave — 

And  can  it  be  that  you  are  gone, 

And  in  the  grave  ? 

i 

Something  I  miss  at  every  turn — 

Something  for  which  I  blankly  yearn ; 

And  still  some  question  to  decide 
I  turn  as  you  were  at  my  side — 

I  turn  and  think — ah  !  she  alone 
Will  give  the  counsel  that  I  crave  ! 

And  then  I  feel  that  you  are  gone, 
And  in  the  grave  ! 


IN   THE   SHADOW.  361 

Henceforth,  I  know,  at  close  of  day, 

When  I  return  the  old,  old  way, 
The  voice  that  greeted  me  before, 

Soon  as  my  hand  was  on  the  door, 
No  more  will  greet  me  with  the  tone 

Of  gentle  welcome  once  it  gave — 
For  oh  !  I  feel  that  you  are  gone, 
And  in  the  grave. 

Others  such  grief  as  mine  have  borne, 

And  I,  like  them,  shall  live  and  mourn, — 

It  nought  avails  to  grieve  or  sigh 
For  what  has  gone  so  utterly  ! 

And  yet,  how  can  I  help  to  moan 

For  what  no  love  had  power  to  save — 

For  oh  !  I  feel  that  you  are  gone, 
And  in  the  grave. 

Courage  !  the  heavy  hand  of  Fate 

Has  laid  on  me  its  cruel  weight, 
And  all  these  coming  years  of  care 

And  sorrow  I  alone  must  bear  ; 


362  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Yes  !  I  must  strive  to  bear  alone, 

Without  the  help  that  once  you  gave ; 
For  you,  my  love,  my  joy,  are  gone, 
And  in  the  grave. 


ART. 


{Dedicated  to  G.  H.] 


Is  this  the  stately  shape  I  saw 
In  Greece  a  thousand  years  ago  ; 

Who  ruled  the  world  by  Beauty's  law, 
And  used  among  the  gods  to  go  ? 

Who,  wheresoe'er  she  turned  her  eyes, 
Below  her  saw  a  reverent  throng ; 

Whose  praise  was  taken  as  a  prize  ; 
Who  made  immortal  with  a  song  ? 

Now,  scant  in  garb,  a  mendicant, 

She  stretches  forth  her  prayerful  palms, 


364  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  wealth,  in  pity  for  her  want, 
Contemptuous  tosses  her  its  alms. 

This  gift  is  not  for  charity, 

But  love,  that  at  thy  feet  I  lay. 

Oh,  take  my  heart  that  throbs  for  thee  ! 
And  smile  as  in  the  ancient  day. 


ON    THE    SEA-SHORE. 


THE  sky  is  grey,  with  lowering  clouds  of  lead, 

And  scarce  a  break  of  blue, 
Here  pencilled  down  with  rain,  and  overhead 

With  silver  gleams  shot  through. 

Upon  the  rocky  shore  I  sit  alone ; 

The  dark-green  sullen  sea, 
Along  the  shore  makes  a  perpetual  moan, 

And  struggles  restlessly. 

Noiseless  as  pictures,  on  their  wings  of  white 
The  distant  vessels  glide 


366  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

By  purple  islands  veiled  in  dreamy  light, 
That  silent  there  abide. 


Across  the  purple  shoals  of  sunken  rocks 

The  toppling  racers  break, 
And  suck,  and  roar,  and  beat  with  ceaseless  shocks 

The  worn  cliff's  weedy  base. 

Heaved  by  the  lifting  swell,  the  long  green  flag 

Of  sea-weed  floats  and  falls, 
And  down  their  shelf  the  raking  pebbles  drag, 

As  back  the  surf-wave  crawls. 

I  sit  as  in  a  dream,  and  hear,  and  see, 

With  senses  lulled  away, 
And  what  the  ocean  says  or  sings  to  me 

I  strive  in  vain  to  say. 

Something  there  is  beneath  that  constant  moan 

That  utterance  seeks  in  vain ; 
Like  some  dim  memory,  some  hidden  tone, 

That,  helpless,  haunts  the  brain. 


ON  THE   SEA-SHORE.  367 

But  all  my  thoughts,  like  sea-weed,  swing  and  sway, 

The  sport  of  fantasy ; 
And  visions  pass  before  me  far  away, 

Like  vessels  out  at  sea, — 

Pass  through  my  mind  with  an  ideal  freight, 

And  softly  move  along — 
A  sweet  procession,  without  care  or  weight, 

Like  disembodied  song. 


THE    CHIFFONIER. 


I  AM  a  poor  Chiffonier ! 
I  seek  what  others  cast  away  ! 
In  refuse-heaps  the  world  throws  by, 
Despised  of  man,  my  trade  I  ply ; 
And  oft  I  rake  them  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  fragments  broken,  stained,  and  torn, 
I  gather  up,  and  make  my  store 
Of  things  that  dogs  and  beggars  scorn. 
I  am  the  poor  Chiffonier  ! 

You  see  me  in  the  dead  of  night 
Peering  along  with  pick  and  light, 


THE  CHIFFONIER.  369 

And  while  the  world  in  darkness  sleeps, 
Waking  to  rake  its  refuse-heaps ; 
I  scare  the  dogs  that  round  them  prowl, 
And  light  amid  the  rubbish  throw, 
For  precious  things  are  hid  by  foul 
Where  least  we  heed  and  least  we  know. 
I  am  the  poor  Chiffonier  ! 

No  wretched  and  rejected  pile, 
No  tainted  mound  of  offal  vile, 
No  drain  or  gutter  I  despise, 
For  there  may  lie  the  richest  prize ; 
And  oft  amid  the  litter  thrown, 
A  silver  coin — a  golden  ring 
Which  holdeth  still  its  precious  stone, 
Some  happy  chance  to  me  may  bring. 
I  am  the  poor  Chiffonier  ! 

These  tattered  rags,  so  soiled  and  frayed, 
WTere  in  a  loom  of  wonder  made, 
And  beautiful  and  free  from  shame 
When  from  the  master's  hand  they  came. 
2  A 


370  GRAFFITI  D'lTALIA. 

The  reckless  world  that  threw  them  off 
Now  heeds  them  only  to  despise ; 
Yet,  ah  !  despite  its  jeer  and  scoff, 
What  virtue  still  within  them  lies  ! 

I  am  the  poor  Chiffonier  ] 

Yes  !  all  these  shreds  so  spoiled  and  torn, 
These  ruined  rags  you  pass  in  scorn, 
This  refuse  by  the  highway  tost, 
I  seek  that  they  may  not  be  lost ; 
And,  cleansed  from  filth  that  on  them  lies, 
And  purified  and  purged  from  stain, 
Renewed  in  beauty  they  shall  rise 
To  wear  a  spotless  form  again. 

I  am  the  poor  Chiffonier ! 


BLANK    QUESTIONINGS. 


WHAT  is  this  vague,  dim  world  before, 
We  vainly  struggle  to  explore 
With  outstretched  wishes,  hopes,  and  thoughts, 
That  fail  before  they  reach  the  shore  ? 

What  is  this  startling,  sudden  change, 
That  in  a  moment  from  the  range 
Of  every  sense  takes  life  away 
To  regions  dim  and  strange  ? 

Dear  friend  !  my  earnest  following  thought 
Thy  track  into  that  world  hath  sought 


372  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

In  vain ;  no  word  nor  silent  sign 

Of  what,  and  where  thou  art,  is  brought. 

And  yet  I  seem  to  feel  that  thou 
Beholdest  me  more  nearly  now, 
And  all  my  soul,  like  some  clear  book, 
Readest,  I  see  not  how. 

And  knowing,  now  that  life  has  fled, 
Thou,  silent  and  unseen,  may'st  thread 
The  dim,  still  chambers  of  my  soul — 
I  feel,  as  with  a  holy  dread, 

How  full  of  love  it  ought  to  be, 
How  pure  of  thought,  how  clean  and  free 
From  any  stain  and  soil  of  sense, 
Which  thy  dear  eyes  could  see. 

Come,  then,  when  I  am  sad  and  low, 
And  through  those  chambers  softly  blow 
The  fragrance  of  thy  love  around, 
And  seeds  of  purer  purpose  sow. 


BLANK   QUESTIONINGS.  373 

Come  !  find  the  secret  memories 
That  are  not  seen  of  human  eyes — 
The  thoughts,  the  hopes,  the  dreams,  that  dwell 
In  inmost  privacies. 

And  if  thou  findest,  entering  there, 
Some  nooks  that  are  not  wholly  bare 
Of  love,  forgive  them  for  that  love, 
The  evil  and  unfair. 


ALPINE      SONG. 


WITH  alpenstock  and  knapsack  light 

I  wander  o'er  hill  and  valley, 
I  climb  the  snow-peak's  flashing  height 

And  sleep  in  the  sheltered  chalet, — 
Free  in  heart — happy  and  free — 
This  is  the  summer  life  for  me. 

The  city's  dust  I  leave  behind 

For  the  keen,  sweet  air  of  the  mountain, 
The  grassy  path  by  the  wild  rose  lined, 

The  gush  of  the  living  fountain, — 
Free  in  heart — happy  and  free — 
This  is  the  summer  life  for  me. 


ALPINE  SONG.  3/5 

High  above  me  snow-clouds  rise 

In  the  early  morning  gleaming ; 
And  the  patterned  valley  beneath  me  lies 

Softly  in  sunshine  dreaming, — 
Free  in  heart — happy  and  free — 
This  is  the  summer  life  for  me. 


The  bells  of  wandering  herds  I  list 
Chiming  in  upland  meadows  ; 

How  sweet  they  sound,  as  I  lie  at  rest 
Under  the  dark  pine  shadows  ! — 

Glad  in  heart — happy  and  free — 

This  is  the  summer  life  for  me. 


The  thundering  lawine's  roar  I  hear, 
And  the  torrent's  foamy  bounding  ; 

And  the  steep  crag's  answer  sweet  and  clear, 
When  the  alpine  horn  is  sounding, — 

Glad  in  heart — happy  and  free, 

This  is  the  summer  life  for  me. 


376  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

A  good  stout  alpenstock  in  hand, 
A  flask  from  my  shoulder  swinging, 

And  a  rose  in  my  hat,  o'er  the  Oberland 
I  wander  for  ever  singing,— 

Glad  in  heart — happy  and  free, 

This  is  the  summer  life  for  me. 


TWO     STARS. 


LOOK  !  love,  into  the  sky,  and  say, 
When  I  am  gone  beyond  the  sea, 

What  stars  of  all  the  many  stars 
Shall  shine  for  you  and  me. 

See  !  there  above,  in  Charles's  Wain, 
Those  two,  that  close  together  shine, 

One  bright  and  large — that  shall  be  yours- 
The  little  faint  one,  mine. 

The  little  one,  that  has  no  praise 
From  all  who  look — the  satellite- 

I  know  not  if  it  have  a  name, 
It  shrinks  so  out  of  sight. 


EUROPA. 

A   PICTURE   BY   PAUL   VERONESE. 


ZEPHYR  is  wandering  here  with  gentle  sound 

The  first  fresh  fragrance  of  the  spring  to  seek ; 

The  milk-white  steer,  whose  budding  horns  are  crowned 

With  flowery  garlands,  kneeling  on  the  ground 

Receives  his  burden  fair,  and  turns  his  sleek 

Mild  head  around,  her  sandalled  foot  to  lick ; 

Luxuriant,  joyous,  fresh,  with  roses  bound 

About  her  sunny  head,  and  on  her  cheek 

The  glow  of  morn,  Europa  mounts  the  steer. 

One  handmaid  clasps  her  girdle,  and  one  calls 

The  hovering  loves  to  bring  their  garlands  near. 

From  her  full  breast  the  loosened  drapery  falls, 

As  borne  by  Love  o'er  slope  and  lea  she  goes, 

Glad  with  exuberant  life — fresh  as  a  new-blown  rose. 


GIOTTO'S     CHAPEL, 

PADUA. 


How  sweet  the  mild  retirement  of  this  spot ! 

This  area,  where  the  gladiator  bled, 

With  turf  and  flowers  is  softly  carpeted  ; 

These  girdling  walls  where  later  knighthood  fought 

Now  draped  with  ivy  stand,  remembering  not 

Their  scenes  of  former  life.     But  here,  instead, 

The  artist's  steps  in  pilgrimage  are  led 

To  seek  the  shrine  by  Giotto's  genius  wrought. 

Here,  dedicate  to  art  and  piety, 

His  simple  chapel  stands ;  and  painted  here 

Upon  its  walls  a  pictured  life  I  see, 

Inspired  by  feeling,  earnest  and  sincere. 

What  faith,  what  simple  dignity  and  grace 

Art  since  hath  lost,  are  in  this  cloistered  place ! 


S  C  H  E  R  Z   I 


BLUE    BEARD'S    CABINETS. 


{Dedicated  to  E.  B.  H.} 


WOMEN  are  curious,  one  and  all,  we  know, — 

Eve  was,  and  so  is  every  woman  since. 

All  other  virtues  unto  you  are  given 

Except  to  close  your  eyes  and  curb  your  tongue. 

Nor  should  I  dare,  dear  Fatima,  to  you, 

Best  of  your  sex,  to  trust  this  single  key, 

Forbidding  you  to  turn  it  in  the  lock  ; — 

You  pout,  say  no  !  and  shake  your  pretty  head — 

Vainly — I  know  'twould  never  let  you  rest. 

Since  mother  Eve,  a  thing  prohibited 

Tortures  your  sex  till  it  is  known  and  tried. 


384  GRAFFITI    D'lTALIA. 

Just  try  you  ?     Tis  a  shame  to  say  such  words. 
What  have  you  ever  done  ?     When  trust  is  gone, 
Love  follows  soon — and  are  those  really  tears? 
Tears  ?  and  we  married  only  two  short  months — 
Smile,  dearest,  once  again,  and  take  the  key ! 

Take  it  !  there's  nothing  better  in  the  world 

Than  curiosity.     It  is  the  spur 

Of  knowledge.     Pray,  forgive  me,  Fatima  ! 

Take  it — I  meant  to  leave  you  all  the  rest, 

For  these  two  months  have  slipped  so  swift  away 

(Joy  flies  so  fast,  'tis  only  grief  that  halts) 

In  this  our  Spanish  castle,  that  in  truth 

I  had  forgotten  all  the  curious  things 

In  the  old  cabinets ; — but  now,  constrained 

To  leave  you  for  a  wreek,  Annie  and  you 

May  hunt  them  through  to  while  the  hours  away. 

Here  are  the  keys — each  opes  a  cabinet 
Where  all  of  rare  my  ancestors  have  found, 
Whether  in  travel  through  the  broad  domain 
Of  fact,  or  fancy,  or  romance,  are  ranged. 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  385 

Each  has  its  number.     Enter  !  open  all ! 

Stay  !  just  to  show  how  false  is  tongue  of  man, 

Let  me  prohibit  one  !     I  will  not  say 

What  it  contains.     Thank  you  for  that  proud  smile  ! 

Think  you  I  fear  lest  you  should  enter  there ; 

No,  by  my  love  !     You  need  not  promise  me. 

I  only  say,  This  opes  the  door  of  death 

Beyond  the  hall  of  dreams.     You  look  surprised  ! 

Curious,  of  course,  you're  not !     There  is  the  key  ! 

These  nine-and-ninety  keys  ope  worlds  enough 
For  one  short  week ;  and  in  the  hall  of  death 
Sooner  or  later  all  of  us  shall  look. 
Meanwhile,  the  others  may  suffice  you.     Stop  ! 
Let  me  point  out  some  curious  cabinets 
That  will  amuse  you  most,  and  mark  the  keys. 

This,  turned  within  its  wards,  will  show  you  gems 
Of  wondrous  beauty  and  strange  rarity. 
Red  trees  of  branching  coral,  found  beneath 
The  Elysian  isles,  and  by  the  shining  scales 
Of  mermaids  polished,  over-roof  the  hall ; 
2    B 


386  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

And  dragons,  gleaming  in  enamelled  mail, 
With  eyes  of  diamond,  in  the  corners  crouch. 
In  frieze  of  beaten  gold,  along  the  wall, 
Struggle  fierce  centaurs  clasped  by  Lapithae. 
And  round  the  pavement  whirls  a  chariot  race, 
With  foaming  steeds  and  naked  outstretched  arms 
Mosaic'd  on  a  band  of  marble  black. 
The  ceiling's  panels  are  in  ivory  carved, 
Each  with  a  lotus  or  magnolia  spread, 
And  all  the  solid  beams  are  massive  gold. 

Here,  round  the  walls,  in  ebon  cabinets 
With  ivory  intarsia  storied  o'er, 
And  faced  with  flawless  crystal,  you  may  see 
My  stores  of  curious  gems ; — clear  crystal  balls, 
Concealing  in  their  depths  a  magic  life, 
Where  steal  the  pale  reflections  of  time's  ghosts ; 
Cat  eyes,  whose  iris  circles  glare  and  shift ; 
Opals,  alive  within  with  quivering  fires ; 
Smooth  globes  of  garnets  like  rich  jelly-drops  ; 
And  mystic  onyxes  with  figures  strange 
Carved  on  their  facets  by  Egyptian  priests ; 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  387 

Vases  of  jasper  red  and  sardonyx, 
Beryl  and  topaz,  jacinth,  amethyst, 
And  orient  alabaster ;  and  all  stones 
That  sun-struck  Africa,  of  dark  and  veined, 
Blood-streaked  and  solemn,  in  her  caves  conceals ; 
The  great  carbuncle,  sought  for  centuries, 
Here  blazes  like  a  sun  ;  and  at  its  side 
Note,  too,  a  common  stone,  a  pebble  vile, 
Hung  near  a  pure  and  perfect  chrysolite 
(Smooth  as  a  mirror,  flawless  as  the  sky) ; 
It  scarce  would  take  your  eye,  it  seems  so  vile, 
Yet  touched  by  it  the  filthiest  dross  grows  gold, 
And  Europe  for  that  stone  would  sell  its  soul. 
Here  is  the  pearl  the  Egyptian  queen  dissolved, 
What  time  with  Anthony  in  revels  wild 
She  toyed  and  feasted ;  and  beside  it  lies 
The  royal  asp,  her  bracelet,  where  she  kept 
Her  death,  her  freedom,  in  one  poison-drop. 
Pass  not  the  Gracchi  jewels,  famed  so  long, 
Two  great  cornelians,  and  beyond  all  price  ; 
Nor  the  vast  diamond  Polyphemus  wore 
Fixed  to  his  forehead,  called  by  men  his  eye. 


388  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Here  hangs  a  curtain ;  draw  it  back — it  runs 

On  rings  that  from  the  field  of  Cannae  came — 

Behind  it  other  curious  rings  you'll  find — 

Morone's,  whence  a  prisoned  devil  spoke  ; 

Aboukir's,  gifted  with  a  lightning  sword, 

Which,   when   his   hand  waved,   sheared  his  foeman's 

head; 

Joudar's,  which  owned  its  black  tremendous  slave ; 
The  Samian's  lucky  ring  he  could  not  lose ; 
And  Pyrrhus's,  whose  figures  nature  carved ; 
And  that  which  Gyges  wore  ;  and  Solomon's, 
Whose  mystic  stamp  sealed  in  his  sunken  vase 
The  cloud-vast  Afrite  'neath  the  Arabian  lake ; 
There  is  the  ring  with  which  my  ancestor 
Married  the  Adriatic — one  sea-green 
Aqua  marina,  jutting  forth  in  points 
Of  starry  brilliants  ;  and  beside  it  lies 
The  poison-ring  the  gold-haired  Borgia  wore ; 
And  that  Elizabeth  to  Essex  gave. 

This  iron  key,  with  lines  of  silver  veined, 
Opens  a  cabinet  more  curious  yet. 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  389 

Ultramarine  the  roof,  one  mighty  block, 

Besprinkled  with  a  thousand  golden  stars. 

Panelled  in  Afric  marbles  are  the  walls, 

All  pictured  o'er  with  wild  and  mystic  shapes 

Of  every  varying  hue, — from  purpling  lakes 

And  crimson  carmines  unto  Stygian  black. 

Two  sombre  columns  carved  with  stories  strange 

Of  Asian  magic  in  the  centre  stand — 

The  capital's  red  gold  a  band  of  skulls. 

As  the  vast  door  you  push,  a  thunderous  sound 

Of  mournful  music  groans  along  the  vault, 

And  lightnings,  flashing,  cross  their  jagged  swords. 

Be  undismayed  and  enter  !     On  the  floor 

A  charm  is  written ;  in  the  circle  stand 

And  say  "  Geheimniss  ! "     Music  then  will  rain 

Soft  as  a  summer  shower  to  soothe  the  sense, 

And  hands  invisible  will  lead  you  round. 

Here  you  will  find  the  wondrous  planisphere 
Of  Abdelsamad.  in  whose  depths  were  seen 
All  regions  of  the  earth — that  smote  with  fire 
The  nations  at  its  owner's  wrathful  nod. 


390  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Here  I  have  ranged  a  thousand  curious  things 
Found  in  my  travels  into  distant  lands  ; — 
Among  them  is  a  hydra's  snaky  head ; — 
And  (for  I'm  curious  in  hair)  you'll  find, 
Bound  in  a  single  braid,  and  closely  clasped 
By  a  dried  Harpy-claw,  one  Gorgon  lock 
From  the  Medusa's  head,  entwined  with  one 
Torn  from  Megsera  and  Tisiphone, 
And  from  Alecto  one — while  in  and  out 
A  golden  tress  that  on  the  Borgia's  brow 
Meandered  once,  slips  gleaming  here  and  there. 

Here  are  some  relics  which  from  over  sea 

The  Flying  Dutchman  brought  from  classic  lands. 

Among  them  is  Pandora's  opened  box, 

The  Attic  cynic's  lantern  and  his  tub, 

A  shrieking  branch  from  the  ^Eneid  grove, 

Arion's  harp  and  Hermes'  wand ;  the  bag 

Of  Eolus,  Ulysses'  wax,  the  flute 

That  Orpheus  played  ;  a  soft  half-melted  plume 

Dropped  from  the  waxen  wings  of  Icarus, 

The  sword  suspended  by  a  single  hair.  .  .  . 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  391 

And  underneath  this  last  a  skull  I've  placed— 
One  that  was  brought  to  me  from  Golgotha. 

Here  from  the  vaguer  regions  of  Romance 

Are  various  objects,  and  beyond  all  price  : 

Such  as  the  cap  which  Fortunatus  wore, 

The  bowl  in  which  the  men  of  Gotham  sailed, 

The  bodkin  that  Amina  used  to  pick 

Her  grains  of  rice  before  her  fouler  feast, — 

Agrippa's  glass  and  that  of  Schemseddin, 

The  King  of  Thule's  goblet,  with  a  tinge 

Of  the  red  wine  that  wet  his  noble  beard, 

Poor  Schlemihl's  shadow,  and  the  Roc's  huge  egg, 

Aladdin's  lamp,  and  Circe's  magic  cup. 

Here  in  one  corner  of  the  room  you'll  find 

A  medley  of  all  sorts  of  oddities  : 

There's  a  wise  saw,  that  shows  its  teeth  to  fools, 

An  ancient  augur  (famous  as  a  bore), 

A  modern  screw,  a  rod  in  pickle  kept, 

A  pair  of  ruined  breaches  made  by  Time, 

And  in  them  tares  the  enemy  hath  sown. 


3Q2  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Here  is  the  crystal  luck  of  Eden  hall, 
In  which  some  flowers  of  rhetoric  are  placed— 
The  snowy  plume  of  Henry  of  Navarre, 
With  Conachar's  white  feather  at  its  side — 
Here  is  a  tune  that  from  Munchausen's  horn 
Was  taken  ere  it  thawed,  and  fragments  rare 
Of  frozen  music  sent  me  by  De  Stae'l, — 
Being  choice  bits  of  fluting  round  the  drum 
Of  Kubla  Khan's  majestic  pleasure  dome — 
You'll  know  the  spot  by  looking  on  the  floor, 
Where  I  have  caused  a  pattern  to  be  worked 
In  coloured  jewels,  after  a  design 
From  the  Mosaic  dispensation  drawn — 
While  from  the  ceiling  o'er  it  like  a  lamp 
Hangs  the  lost  Pleiad,  which  the  wandering  Jew 
Found  on  the  topmost  peak  of  Ararat. 

This  my  menagerie  will  ope,  and  here 
Along  the  walls  are  pictured  various  lands  : 
While  columns  with  alternate  ebon  bands 
Winding  with  ivory  spirals  stand  between — 
Here  Asian  deserts,  idly  vast,  outstretch, 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  393 

And  black  Nigritia  scowls,  and  naked  girls 
Dance  in  the  shade  of  Abyssinian  palms — 
Here  shakes  the  tinkling  life  of  the  Chinese 
'Neath  Altai  mountains  in  Mongolia ; 
While  on  the  other  side  the  slim  canoe 
Through  Polynesian  waters  swiftly  glides ; 
And  the  great  banyan  darkens  down  the  shore. 

Along  the  northern  wall  the  iceberg  sails, 
Toppling  and  crashing  through  white  fields  of  ice, 
Where  the  bear  souses  in  his  Arctic  bath. 
Close  by,  beneath  the  Uralian  avalanche, 
Siberia  spreads  her  dark  platoons  of  pines. 
All  lands  are  here — all  quarters  of  the  earth — 
Venetian  splendours  of  her  gorgeous  days — 
The  savage  life  afar  in  western  wilds — 
The  babbling  glitter  of  the  Boulevards — 
The  lonely  Kaffir's  hut — the  middle  sea, 
With  roaring  billows  plunging  all  alone. 

Here  range  my  wondrous  animals,  and  here 
The  great  white  elephant  of  Siam  walks 


394  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Beside  the  magic  steed  that  swam  the  air, 

And  Pegasus  with  both  his  wings  tied  down. 

Here  is  Androcles'  lion ;  at  his  side 

Chimaera  and  three-headed  Cerberus ; 

And  near  the  dragon  with  a  hundred  heads, 

That  watched  the  Hesperian  gardens  day  and  night, 

Couches  the  sad  Sphinx  with  her  silent  face. 

Strange  converse  hold  they  in  a  wondrous  tongue, 

And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  they  tell, 

Of  Orpheus,  Hercules,  Bellerophon, 

Growling  a  laugh  the  while  from  ruddy  maws. 

Rouse  them  from  sleep  !  for  now  with  habits  changed 

And  wearied  with  the  sleepless  hours  of  eld 

They  slumber  much. 

But  not  to  pause  with  these, 
Look  at  my  Attic  hive.     Hymettus'  flowers 
Are  blooming  round  it.     There  is  Rhaicus'  bee, 
And  one  that  Sappho  caught  on  Cupid's  lips, 
Which  stung  her  to  a  luscious  epigram. 
Here  in  sheep's  clothing  wanders  ^Esop's  wolf, 
With  Reineke  the  diplomatic  fox, 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  395 

And  Monsieur  Frog  who  burst  with  vanity. 
Here  too  's  the  cow  that  vaulted  o'er  the  moon, 
The  famous  clock  the  mouse  ran  up,  the  cat 
That  owned  the  fiddle,  the  small  dog  that  laughed 
When  crafty  dish  with  silly  spoon  eloped, 
And  mother  Hubbard's  still  more  famous  dog. 
Here  is  the  goose  that  laid  the  golden  egg, 
The  camel  through  the  needle's  eye  that  passed, 
Quarles'  friendly  monkey,  Beauty's  gentle  beast, 
The  tortoise  with  the  hare  that  ran  a  race, 
And  that  which  crushed  the  skull  of  ^Eschylus. 
Here  in  a  pleasant  group  you  may  behold 
The  Austrian  eagle  with  its  double  head, 
The  Scottish  unicorn  and  Gallic  cock, 
Discussing  politics  and  talking  wise 
Of  European  balances  of  power. 
And  here  in  pleasant  conversation  meet 
Two  long-eared  friends,  who  hold  a  wise  discourse 
With  longer-horned  companions  scarce  so  dull 
As  many  a  human  party  we  have  known. 
There  Balaam's  social  beast,  and  at  his  side 
His  crony,  Apuleius'  golden  ass, 


396  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

May  yet  be  seen  talking  with  Myron's  cow, 
Or  the  red  cow  that  told  such  wondrous  tales 
Of  her  interior  knowledge  of  Tom  Thumb ; 
While  standing  near  and  listening,  you  may  see 
A  group  of  bulls — among  them  he  who  pulled 
Cock  Robin's  knell,  and  he  whom  Phaleris 
Begat  in  brass,  and  one  from  Ireland  sent, 
And  from  the  Vatican  one  Papal  bull. 
And  here  at  last,  to  end  my  catalogue, 
Which  merely  hints  a  creature  here  and  there,. 
My  rarest  wonders  from  the  East,  you'll  see 
Two  vampires  and  a  red-lipped  female  Ghoule. 

Tired  of  these,  if  you  should  wish  to  read, 
Look  in  my  library.     This  curious  key — 
A  serpent  issuing  from  an  ivory  skull 
And  twisting  round  its  handle — opens  it. 
Here  are  dim  alcoves  framed  in  ebony 
And  lit  by  softly-blazoned  diamond  panes, 
Where  glow  and  move  as  if  endowed  with  life 
The  painted  history  of  glorious  men. 
Each  pane  is  magic ;  at  a  simple  sign 


BLUE   BEARD'S   CABINETS.  397 

The  life  of  him  whose  name  is  writ  beneath 

Will  glide  in  mute  procession  o'er  its  face. 

The  room  is  deaf  to  sound  ;  a  moth-like  veil 

Like  woven  twilight  o'er  the  ceiling  floats. 

And  from  the  centre  hangs  a  crystal  globe : 

Touch  it  but  once,  a  Marid  answers  it, 

And  at  your  nod  brings  all  your  wish  may  shape. 

Noiseless  he  moves,  and  comes  and  goes  like  air, 

Waving  Arabian  odour  from  his  wings. 

Would  you  behold  the  furthest  wildest  spot 

Hid  in  the  secret'st  corner  of  the  earth, 

Twirl  the  globe  thrice  and  in  its  depths  it  lives. 

Fixed  in  the  wall  a  magic  mirror  shines 

Oblong  and  veined  with  myriad  wavering  lines  : 

That's  the  time-table  of  the  centuries — 

Name  but  the  number  of  a  year,  day,  hour, 

And  then  a  place — the  deed  there  done,  and  then, 

Will  start  at  once  to  picture  in  the  glass 

And  move,  as  you  request  it,  on  in  time. 

Within  these  cabinets  are  curious  books, 
Among  a  myriad  which  I  will  not  name, 


398  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

Which  now  the  world  supposes  to  be  lost — 

The  Sibyl's  books  are  there,  the  two  she  burnt, 

There  Dante's  rhyme,  with  Angelo's  designs, 

There  Raffaelle's  hundred  sonnets  fairly  writ, 

There  Sappho's  songs,  complete,  and  Shakespeare's  life, 

And  the  lost  tragedies  of  yEschylus. 

The  famous  distich  of  Callicrates 

Writ  on  a  seed  of  sesamum  is  there, 

With  the  whole  Iliad  in  a  nutshell  closed. 

There  is  the  music  of  the  Song  of  songs, 

Great  books  of  drawings  by  Philostrates, 

And  all  the  poems  Coleridge  meant  to  write. 

In  the  far  corner  towering  over  all 

Chryselephantine  sits  the  Phidian  Zeus, 

And  on  the  walls  Da  Vinci's  great  cartoon 

Beside  its  rival  hangs  intact  and  fresh ; 

And  there  alone  upon  a  sombre  stand, 

Tempting  the  touch  to  open  its  great  leaves, 

Where  no  one  ever  read  but  wept,  is  placed 

The  sad  black-letter  Book  of  Destiny. 

This  key  my  great  conservatory  opes, 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  399 

Where  you  will  find  some  rare  and  curious  fruits — 

There  are  the  sour  grapes — but  within  your  reach — 

Taste  them  if  you  desire  !     There  too  you'll  see 

The  apple  Paris  to  the  fairest  gave  ; 

And  that  which  tempted  Eve,  in  it  her  teeth 

You'll  see  imprinted ;  also  that  which  grows 

Upon  the  Dead  Sea's  margin,  with  the  three 

That  from  the  Hesperian  gardens  Atlas  stole. 

There  is  the  date-stone  by  the  merchant  thrown 

Against  the  Afrite  o'er  the  garden-wall ; 

The  pear  that  caused  the  sleeper's  nose  to  grow ; 

The  Lotus  fruit  that  brings  oblivion  ; 

A  date-tree  with  the  dates  of  everything ; 

And  the  unripening  fruit  of  our  desires. 

This  opes  the  silent  cabinet  of  dreams — 

'Tis  vague  and  empty  when  you  enter  first  ! 

A  mystery  floats  around,  like  music  dim 

For  which  the  ear  keeps  straining — sounds  so  fine 

That  all  the  soul  must  listen,  leaning  out 

Upon  the  furthest  verge  of  sense  to  hear. 

Out  of  the  dark  emerge,  by  slow  degrees, 


400  GRAFFITI    D'lTALIA. 

Vague  things  that  come  and  go — great  ghostly  shapes- 
Like  shadows  on  a  curtain  when  it  swings  ; 
Dear  smiles  gleam  there  that  made  the  joy  of  life, 
And  hopes  burst  forth  to  their  consummate  flower 
That  faded  long  ago  to  death  and  dust 
In  our  young  hearts.     Ambition  there  holds  up 
Its  splendid  gifts,  and  in  our  hands  we  grasp 
The  prize  we  covet  dearer  than  our  life. 
There,  lips  are  kissed  that  drown  the  soul  with  love, 
And  voices  whisper  us  to  heavenly  trance, 
And  wishes  reach  their  goal.     There  you  may  find 
The  cabala  on  which  is  fairly  writ 
The  squaring  of  the  circle — the  receipt 
For  alchemists  to  make  the  wondrous  stone, 
And  to  achieve  perpetual  motion.     There 
Are  faultless  pictures,  statues,  poems,  songs, 
That  sternest  critics  strive  in  vain  to  blame. 
One  cabinet  contains,  placed  side  by  side, 
A  pair  of  shabby,  little,  worn-out  shoes, 
A  golden  locket  with  an  auburn  curl, 
A  dry  dead  rose,  the  yellow  page  whereon 
The  drawing  of  a  childish  hand  is  seen, 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  401 

And  a  love-letter  stained  with  blots  of  tears — 

Ah  !  touch  them  not,  for  they  will  make  you  weep  ! 

There  is  a  box  crammed  full  of  broken  hopes 

And  childish  joys  we  careless  threw  away 

And  never  could  recover,  though  lifelong  * 

We  prayed  the  truants  to  return  again. 

Here  for  a  time,  while  sleep's  dim  door  is  shut, 
What  waking  life  denies,  in  dreams  is  given. 
Here,  sleeping,  you  may  quaff  the  drink  of  gods, 
And  in  a  moment  know  perennial  youth. 
Nor  this  alone — but  through  the  wilds  of  space, 
Borne  to  the  universe's  verge,  may  rush 
Up  to  the  gates  of  heaven,  and  see  below 
In  endless  swarming  all  the  fiery  spheres 
Flash  through  the  solemn  depths  of  silent  night. 

Pass  through  this  room — 'tis  but  a  vestibule 
That  opens  to  a  vaster  drearier  hall — 
Where  horrent  dreams  steal  noiselessly  about, 
And  opiate  shapes  of  sick  delirium  swarm, 
And  nightmares  wander.     There  the  Marids  dwell 
2  C 


402  GRAFFITI  D'lTALIA. 

And  Ghouls,  and  Ginns,  and  Afrites  huge  and  black, 
And  forms  so  faint  that  they  elude  the  eye. 
These,  as  you  look  upon  them,  shift  and  change, 
Mow,  mock,  and  threaten,  and  pursue  your  steps 
As,  wild  with  fear,  you  strive  with  leaden  feet 
To  flee  their  presence.     There,  in  awe  and  dread, 
Vague  horrors  creep  that  have  no  name  on  earth, 
Found  in  the  fevered  dreams  of  wicked  souls, 
And  sent  me  from  the  East.     There  upward  stretch, 
Leading  to  nowhere,  monstrous  galleries, 
Where  slipping,  sliding,  goes  the  'wildered  thought 
Up  endless  convolutions  into  heights 
So  vast  we  totter  in  a  vague  dismay 
Or  drop  to  blankness.     There  huge  caverns  gape, 
Dripping  with  terrors,  into  which  we  slip 
Despite  our  death-like  graspings  for  support. 
There  whirl  a  million  dizzy  wheels  of  thought, 
And  spin  to  madness.     With  your  waking  steps 
You  need  not  fear  them — they're  unreal  all. 

Here  stay  your  feet ;  nor  curious  seek  to  pass 
The  massive  door  that  opens  out  beyond. 


BLUE  BEARD'S  CABINETS.  403 

What  lies  behind,  your  eyes  must  never  see — 
Never  without  the  charm  to  keep  you  safe, 
For  there  lies  death,  unless  the  charm  you  own. 
"  Give  it  to  me,"  you  cry — so  curious,  then? 
If  you  insist,  of  course ;  and  you'll  admit 
Eve  is  your  mother.     Never  say  again 
That  women  have  no  curiosity. 
Ah  !  now  you  frown,  and  with  a  look  of  pride 
Reject  my  offer.     So,  love,  let  it  be. 
I'll  keep  the  charm,  and  say  'tis  just  as  sure 
That  you  are  curious  as  that  I'm  unkind. 
Both  false — and  here's  the  key,  dear  Fatima ; 
And  pray  obey  my  warning — never  look 
Into  the  Cabinet  of  Death,  for  there 
A  step  were  fatal  if  without  the  charm. 
So  fare  you  well. — Ah  !  I  forgot  to  say 
The  key's  a  fairy  that  will  tell  me  all. 
Don't  shake  your  finger  at  me,  and  curl  up 
That  pretty  lip  with  scorn.     Better  a  kiss  ! 
Perhaps  I'd  better  leave  the  charm — no  !  no  ! 
Not  one  word  more — only  a  kiss — farewell  ! 


SINGING    AT    TWILIGHT. 


You  sang  the  olden  songs,  and,  sadly  dreaming, 
I  lay  and  listened,  while  you  thought  I  slept ; 

And  if  the  tears  were  from  my  eyelids  streaming, 
You  saw  them  not,  and  so  I  freely  wept. 

Round  us  the  silent,  shadowy  night  was  stealing ; 

You  were  a  voice  alone  within  the  dark  ; 
And  from  life's  hardened  crust  a  tender  feeling 

Broke,  like  a  blossom,  through  the  rugged  bark. 

You  were  again  a  young  and  blushing  maiden. 

Who  leaned  upon  my  breast  and  breathed  your  love, 


SINGING   AT   TWILIGHT.  405 

And  I,  no  more  with  disappointments  laden, 
Seemed,  as  of  yore,  beside  you  in  the  grove. 

The  sky  above  us  was  serenely  tender, 

The  moon  shone  softly  gleaming  through  the  trees; 
Clasped  heart  to  heart  in  Love's  complete  surrender, 

Life  seemed  an  island  in  enchanted  seas. 

Dim  longings,  vague  desires,  like  breaths  from  heaven, 
Thrilled  all  our  being  with  a  strange  unrest ; 

And  all  the  finest  strings  that  God  hath  given 
Trembled  to  voiceless  music  in  the  breast. 

Your  hand's  electric  fire  again  ran  through  me, 
I  breathed  the  hyacinth  odour  of  your  hair ; 

Your  soul  in  long  sweet  kisses  clung  unto  me, 
And  filled  me  with  a  rapturous  despair. 

Your  voice  had  ceased ;  yet  still  around  me  fluttered 
The  visions  that  your  songs  had  raised  in  me ; 

When — "Mr  Jones,"  cried  Jeames — "Curse  Jones,"  I 

muttered, 
And  you — "  Bring  in  the  lights ;  'tis  time  for  tea." 


406  GRAFFITI  D'ITALIA. 

I  was  again  an  old  hard-hearted  sinner, 
And  you  were  fifty,  and  you  wore  a  cap ; 

Laughing,  you  said  to  Jones,  "  After  his  dinner 
You  see  the  old  man  likes  to  take  his  nap." 


P  E  R  S  I  C  A. 


OH  Persica,  Persica,  pale  and  fair, 
With  a  ripe  blush  on  your  cheek, 

How  pretty — how  very  pretty  you  are, 
Until  you  begin  to  speak ! 

As  for  a  heart  and  soul,  my  dear, 
You  have  not  enough  to  sin ; 

Outside  so  fair,  like  a  peach  you  are, 
With  a  stone  for  a  heart  within. 


A    MUSICAL    BOX. 


I  KNOW  her,  the  thing  of  laces,  and  silk, 

And  ribbons,  and  gauzes,  and  crinoline, 
With  her  neck  and  shoulders  as  white  as  milk, 

And  her  doll-like  face  and  conscious  mien. 
A  lay-figure  fashioned  to  fit  a  dress, 

All  stuffed  within  with  straw  and  bran ; 
Is  that  a  woman  to  love,  to  caress  ? 

Is  that  a  creature  to  charm  a  man  ? 

Only  listen  !  how  charmingly  she  talks 

Of  your  dress  and  hers — of  the  Paris  mode — 

Of  the  coming  ball — of  the  opera-box — 

Of  jupons,  and  flounces,  and  fashions  abroad. 


A   MUSICAL    BOX.  409 

Not  a  bonnet  in  church  but  she  knows  it  well, 
And  Fashion  she  worships  with  downcast  eyes ; 

A  marchande  de  modes  is  her  oracle, 
And  Paris  her  earthly  paradise. 

She's  perfect  to  whirl  with  in  a  waltz ; 

And  her  shoulders  show  well  on  a  soft  divan, 
As  she  lounges  at  night  and  spreads  her  silks, 

And  plays  with  her  bracelets  and  flirts  her  fan  ; 
With  a  little  laugh  at  whatever  you  say, 

And  rounding  her  "  No  "  with  a  look  of  surprise, 
And  lisping  her  "  Yes,"  with  an  air  distrait, 

And  a  pair  of  aimless,  wandering  eyes. 

Her  duty  this  Christian  never  omits  ! 

She  makes  her  calls,  and  she  leaves  her  cards, 
And  enchants  a  circle  of  half-fledged  wits, 

And  slim  attaches  and  six-foot  Guards. 
Her  talk  is  of  people,  who're  nasty  or  nice, 

And  she  likes  little  bon-bons  of  compliments ; 
While  she  seasons  their  sweetness  by  way  of  spice, 

By  some  witless  scandal  she  often  invents. 


410  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Is  this  the  thing  for  a  mother  or  wife  ? 

Could  love  ever  grow  on  such  barren  rocks  ? 
Is  this  a  companion  to  take  for  a  wife  ? 

One  might  as  well  marry  a  musical  box. 
You  exhaust  in  a  day  her  full  extent ; 

JTis  the  same  little  tinkle  of  tunes  always ; 
You  must  wind  her  up  with  a  compliment, 

To  be  bored  with  the  only  airs  she  plays. 


ROSA   HESTERNA. 


YES,  my  love,  it  was  fresh  and  glowing, 
Blooming  and  beautiful, — yesterday  ! 

Now  its  odour  is  sickly,  its  petals  are  going, 
Its  beauty  is  vanished — throw  it  away  ! 

Pray,  don't  thrust  it  under  my  nose  ! 

Who  can  endure  a  yesterday's  rose  ? 

I  cannot  deny  your  pretty  sayings — 

"  It  gave  its  life,  and  died  in  your  hand," 

And  "  There  are  no  deaths  without  decayings ; 
But  the  dying  of  roses  who  can  stand  ? 

The  sweeter  the  odour  the  worse  the  decay ; 

And  a  yesterday's  rose  ! — oh,  throw  it  away  ! 


412  GRAFFITI   D'lTALIA. 

Gratitude, — pity, — sense  of  duty? 

Oh,  my  dear,  don't  talk  such  prose  ! 
If  duty  don't  rhyme,  as  you  say,  to  beauty, 

Does  yesterday's  odour  haunt  yesterday's  rose  ? 
To-morrow,  perhaps,  I  shall  throw  you  away  ! 
Perhaps,  to-morrow,  but  not  to-day. 

Now,  while  your  lips  are  fresh  as  roses, 
Kiss  me,  for  preaching  becomes  you  not ! 

Time  for  his  wisdom  his  penance  imposes  ; 
When  things  are  ripe  they  begin  to  rot. 

And  our  loves  and  our  roses,  when  they  decay, 

However  we  sigh,  must  be  thrown  away. 


SNOWDROP. 


WHEN,  full  of  warm  and  eager  love, 
I  clasp  you  in  my  fond  embrace, 

You  gently  push  me  back  and  say, 

"  Take  care,  my  dear,  you'll  spoil  my  lace. 

You  kiss  me  just  as  you  would  kiss 

Some  woman  friend  you  chanced  to  see ; 

You  call  me  "dearest." — All  love's  forms 
Are  yours,  not  its  reality. 

Oh  Annie  !  cry,  and  storm,  and  rave  ! 

Do  anything  with  passion  in  it ! 
Hate  me  an  hour,  and  then  turn  round 

And  love  me  truly,  just  one  minute. 


PRINTED   BY   WILLIAM   BLACKWOOD   AND   SONS,    EDINBURGH. 


